


Volucrum

by Glinka



Series: The Lark [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angels use vintage telephones, Blood and Injury, Drama, Fallen Angels, Humor, M/M, Religious Content, Torture, War, Wingfic, angst angst oh and some cute stuff?, heaven!au, hella pining, like way hella pining, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7614340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glinka/pseuds/Glinka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Hiatus) The first battle is over, but the war has only just begun. In the face of an impending fight for his family and the earth he once called home, Merlin can't help but feel like he's the cause of all this.</p><p>Oh, and then there's Arthur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, This is your Angel Speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yayy, finally, the first chapter of part 2 is a go! I know this took me forever (and the next chapters will probably start taking a longer time to update since school starts back up in a month) but bear with me, I'm not going to leave this story hanging.

 

 

 

 

_The glories of our blood and state_

_Are shadows, not substantial things;_

_There is no armour against fate;_

_Death lays his icy hand on kings;_

_Sceptre and Crown_

_Must tumble down,_

_And in the dust be equal made_

_With the poor crooked scythe and spade._

_Some men with swords may reap the field,_

_And plant fresh laurels where they kill:_

_But their strong nerves at last must yield;_

_They tame but one another still:_

_Early or late_

_They stoop to their fate,_

_And must give up their murmuring breath_

_When they, pale captives, creep to death._

 

_-James Shirley_

 

 

 

**-^i^-**

 

Petrol fumes and week-old rubbish strewn in the gutters filled the air with the distinct odour that identified the worst niches from the rest of the city, just like any other city in the world.

Jezebel's House - a dive bar situated in one of the dodgiest corners of Hackney - was not a place to go alone. Not for a mortal, anyway.

 

Jezebel's was advertised solely by word-of-mouth, and its patrons came in droves. It didn’t matter who you were- mortal, immortal, stuck in between, demon or witch or Fae, things that lurked below the earth or things that flew above. Everyone was welcome in Jezebel’s, as long as they were paying customers.

Two doors separated the crusty dive from the rest of the world; the first, a plain, wooden tavern door with an old knocker in the shape of a bearded man's face, and a handle that had been touched by so many strangers it probably contained one of the filthiest agglomerations of bacteria and disease-- human or otherwise. Dark magic and traces of demon essence could also be found lingering on the old knocker.

The second door was much older than the first and thicker, made not from one solid piece but from two thick slabs of wood, pitch black in colour and devoid of embellishments. If one didn't know any better, the average person might mistake it for a regular wooden door, painted black.

For those who _did_ know better, you'd be able to see that the door was made of two slabs of solid, priceless ebony. No one left a scratch on this door and got away with it.

The interior of the two, connected ebony slabs contained ancient markings, tarot cards speaking of forgotten prophecies, and tracers infused with magic and ritual symbols. The thing as a whole was close to unbreakable and impregnable, doubly thick and protected with every manner of supernatural tricks of the trade. Jezebel's door was a masterpiece to make the ancient artisans weep. Both with adoration and with envy.

Lancelot pushed past the first door and stepped through the little, relatively empty hall, nearing the second. No one approached him or said a word as he pushed open the black door, walking through and letting it swing shut behind him.

The solitary bouncer standing a few feet away ignored Lance, turning a blind eye while he strode past without a word. No request for ID, no asking for names, nothing; The Archangels didn't need to be on any lists here in order to gain entry.

The employees of Jezebel's did not tangle with Angels. Their regulars did that plenty.

In here, violence of any kind was strictly prohibited-- that didn't stop brawls from breaking out, anyway. Too many times, a waitress or bouncer had had to 'escort' demons and witches, false Satan worshippers and the real things, out of Jezebel's, on account of lost eyes or broken noses.

Such immaturity.

But Angels didn't come to cause trouble. So no one bothered them- not unless they wanted to be bothered.

 

Inside, everything from the bar itself to the late-night bar patrons were bathed in the red glow of dimmed lights. Small, square tables covered in red tablecloths, probably put there to disguise just how expensive the tables themselves must actually be, lined the wall across from the bar. Some patrons stood, carrying drinks and chatting or exchanging cards – it was something of a business setting for the particularly dodgier sorts – and other patrons sat around at the tables, nursing pints or having a smoke. Most of the smokers were older, and instead of cheap cigarettes they brought their own, expensive Castello pipes and special picks of baccy to keep them occupied while they watched the younger ones; these patrons were old - and not just old in a mortal sense - and too wise to speak much, choosing to keep to themselves while they smoked and talked of the good old days.

Lancelot bypassed the bar and headed for the second room, past the row of tables where many of the pub-goers eyed him, but otherwise ignored him. Good. These were a smarter bunch, then.

The second room was darker, flooded in greens and blues, erring on dramatic but keeping just to the right of gimmicky. There were only two booths, as the rest of the floor was occupied by smaller, round tables, each draped in black tablecloths and each boasting a candle in a glass jar. One of the two booths sat privately in the farthest corner back, and catching sight of its occupant, Lancelot walked towards that end of the barroom.

Without invitation, he sat down.

The man on the other side of the booth said nothing, at first, in favor of taking a long pull from his ancient pipe. Lancelot was a patient man; he could wait.

 

Two drags more, and the man across the table finally said something.

“Here for answers, if I’m not mistaken.”

Lancelot nodded, saying nothing. Chatter and low music from the bar filled the empty space, sharing vibrations with the louder music that found its way in through the short corridor separating this room from the main room.

The older man, holding his pipe like one might hold a glass of fine wine, had thick eyebrows, thin lips, a strong nose, and greying hair that he’d slicked back in a devil-may-care attitude, with a few flyaways coming free from the silver clip that held it in place. His beady eyes bore into the soul and reaped its secrets, but not before the man himself invited the soul's owner for a drink. He wasn’t really a man, not exactly.

Kilgarrah, a long-forgotten soul and a proud smoker to boot, was a fallen Angel with broken wings. An Archangel who had fallen from Heaven for making deals with mortals.

His final deal (his _denouement_ , if you will) was one that ended in the sinking of the Library of Alexandria.

Losing humanity such a vast reserve of knowledge was taking it a step too far. Even Kilgarrah knew he’d deserved his fate. Down on earth, however, he continued in his dealing– he claimed he had the best intentions at heart, striving only to help others.

No one believed that for a second.

“I was once one of the most powerful Angels in the Heavenly realms.” His voice was thin and rough, sandpaper on slate, low and sly and at the same time enrapturing. He didn’t plow through his words, taking his time on each syllable to enunciate.

It was hard not to listen to him, even if he tended to speak in riddles and played mind games with anyone looking for direct answers. He also dressed like something out of _The Godfather,_ with a crisp white shirt and a black button-down vest beneath an open suit jacket, finely made and probably worth more than all the booze in the room. Lancelot didn’t have to look down to know that the man also probably sported the latest pair of Italian leather loafers, so new they reflected like mirrors.

Kilgarrah played the game of business with some of the biggest sharks and CEOs in the majority of western Europe, as well as some parts of South America, all while keeping close to the shadows. In other words, no one screwed around with him and got away alive. Lancelot sat in reserved silence while the man talked.

“You’ve come because you offered, not because you were asked. How… noble.” He chuckled, a paper thin wheezing escaping from the back of his throat. “Perhaps you are an Angel worthy of your rank, after all.”

“You know what I came to ask about,” said Lancelot.

“I do. But I don’t think you’ll ask the right sorts of questions.” He took another drag on his pipe, thoughtful. A hint of a smile was there, lurking in the corners of his lips like a game. “Ask me something, we’ll see if I’m right.”

Not intending to leave without sufficient answers, Lancelot steeled himself, willing to endure whatever riddles and mysticisms the old Fallen threw at him. “All right,” he said, “what do you know about the power outage that started in Bristol just yesterday?”

The old man gave another soft chuckle. Lancelot could see that the smoke on his breath was not bluish-white like regular tobacco smoke, but charcoal grey, bordering on black.

As Lancelot feared, he received no good answer.

“See," Kilgarrah wheezed, "now that’s what I mean when I say ‘the wrong sort of question.’ Try again.”

“Fine,” Lance muttered, “who is responsible for closing the gates to Heaven?”

Kilgarrah took a small pinch of something from the front pocket of his jacket and carefully tucked it into the bowl of his pipe. “Getting warmer…” He scrounged up a match from somewhere within another pocket and struck it against the table, carefully lighting what he needed to before puffing on his pipe.

Lancelot gritted his teeth. He wasn’t one to shout, so he didn’t. But he wanted to. _Ohh,_ how he wanted to. He sat there, mulling over the few other questions he could think to ask before drawing a blank.

Thankfully, the old Fallen took pity after another minute of repressive silence. Music hummed from two rooms over. “Your friend who arrived just one month past on the doorstep of the Angels. What do you know of him?”

Lancelot’s brow pinched, perplexed. “Friend.”

“Dark hair, died of a cold, can’t quite figure out how the Upstairs facilities work," said Kilgarrah, canting his head. "Take a guess.” 

“You mean Merlin?” Lance asked, dubious.

Kilgarrah nodded. So, it looked like their conversation was finally _getting_ somewhere.

“He's not all that you believe him to be.”

“And what _do_ I believe him to be?” asked Lance.

“Ah,” the old man rasped, and blew out a cloud of charcoal smoke in the process, “Your friend looks like a mortal, lived as one, acts like one - more or less - and as far as any of the Thrones are aware, he has existed for no more than twenty-four years. A mortal. Nothing more.”

“…Are you saying he isn't?” Lancelot asked carefully. _So much for progress_.

Instead of taking a step in the right direction, he might as well have taken two steps backwards at a downward tilt. Nothing that came out of the old Fallen’s dry, age-soured lips made a lick of sense.

“The man is not mortal.”

That remark dropped like a silent grenade. It was just ready to go off, nearly there, but the spark had nowhere to go just yet as Lancelot took the information and tried to make something of it. But he didn't know  _what_ to make of it.

There was logic in there somewhere, but where _,_ now, that was the real question.

“I…” he shook his head then, “Why are you telling me this? This is about the power outage that affected half the _planet._ Dark forces. This has got nothing to do with Merlin, do you understand?”

“Watch how you speak to me,” said Kilgarrah, calm. How could he be so calm when the fate of this world and the next one were both on the line? Bloody Fallen couldn't give a rat's arse about the world, that was why. “And on the contrary,” he rasped, exhaling another cloud that reeked of tobacco and illegally purchased dragon’s blood, “this has everything to do with him.”

As he left Lancelot to stew in his thoughts, the old man motioned one of the nearby waitresses over to their booth. “Double whiskey for me,” he told her with an oily smile, “and something for my friend. A white Russian, perhaps.” He winked across the table. “To match those lovely wings." The words were pleasant, just loud enough for Lancelot to hear, but quiet enough that the woman wouldn’t catch it.

Lancelot didn’t have his wings out for view, nor did the natural haze have a particular strength down here on earth, but the more _knowing_ patrons of Jezebel’s didn’t need physical proof to know just what Lancelot and Kilgarrah were. Two different ends of the spectrum, him and the old man. And while Kilgarrah wasn’t a malevolent presence, his aura was undoubtedly tainted.

Lancelot waved off the last order with a polite smile. “Nothing for me, thank you,” he said to the woman. But he did reach over to hand her a tip, being as inconspicuous about it as possible. Poor thing looked like she’d been on her feet all day.

She smiled at him, before turning on her heel to go and grab Kilgarrah’s order. Kilgarrah, who snorted out another puff of smoke as he watched the woman leave.

“Such altruism. Are you not fond of vodka? I can order you something else, if you like.”

“I don’t drink,” Lance answered patiently, as he'd been trained to do.

Kilgarrah already knew this, of course— knew, but didn’t care.

“Ah yes, of course, I quite forgot,” he said, although he couldn’t have sounded further from apologetic.

None of the Archangels were allowed alcohol, not unless it was wine, and only if it was consecrated. Times had changed.

It was a shame, really, Lancelot could still remember the sharp zing of whiskey and the lighter, honeyed flavour of mead. So many centuries. But Lancelot had little trouble with temperance— _Gwaine_ , on the other hand, having less responsibility and fewer restrictions due to rank, held a much looser grasp on the concept of sobriety. He still got the job done, though. It really wasn’t fair.

But Lancelot would never say so aloud.

“Your friend is destined for great things,” Kilgarrah murmured through a cloud of tobacco smoke. “Maybe terrible, yes… but great.” He sat there in pensive silence for a moment, tapping a wizened finger absently on the stained varnish of the table. “There was a darkness in him, long ago, and he’d once begged for power. He became cleansed through his Fall. The darkness was ripped out, but so was his memory. An eye for an eye, I suppose,” he mused, thoughtful. “Or perhaps there was never a darkness in him to begin with.” He shrugged, making the thick shoulders of his suit bunch up. “One never remembers details like that at such an old age.”

“Who was—?”

“But for the _other_ Fallen,” Kilgarrah continued without pause, neglecting Lance’s half-uttered question, “the darkness and memories remained. He was corrupted from the very beginning. But your _friend’s_ soul was strong enough to overcome this darkness—is _still_ strong enough to fight it, and to fight against the one who is to be the bane of the very Angel you call your leader.”

It didn’t make sense. Wasn’t there a way to put it without sound so cryptic, without all the embellishments thrown in? This was so typical for a Fallen Angel. Lance was starting to regret coming here, after all.

“Look after him, and I know your leader will as well. Your friend's soul hangs in the balance.”

“I don’t know whose soul you’re talking _about,”_ Lancelot muttered, just before another waitress returned with a sweet smile and Kilgarrah’s whiskey. She also set a glass of water in front of Lancelot, who nodded his thanks. Once she was gone again, Kilgarrah leaned forward across the table, stirring a finger in his whiskey. His nail looked too sharp, almost clawed. Lancelot resisted a shudder.

“Protect your friend, Lancelot," Kilgarrah said, just before he took a generous sip of his whiskey. "Learn to look at your problems a different way.” He gave Lancelot a pointed look. “Why do you think your friend’s arrival to our Father’s doorstep and the flux in the darkness threshold occurred within such a close time frame?”

Lancelot shook his head, tapping a nail to his glass. “I don’t see how Merlin has anything to do with this. One mortal cannot be the cause of something on such a large scale as this, it makes no sense.”

The old Fallen nodded sagely. “Your friend is but one piece of this puzzle.”

“I still don’t understand.” Lancelot waved an exasperated hand in the air, before letting it fall back to his lap.

“You don’t have to. _They_ will. In time.”

“Who will? Who’s ‘they?’” Lancelot pried, growing more and more flummoxed. The waitress from earlier was making her way over to the corner with a hopeful smile, but Lancelot politely waved her away. Disappointed, the woman turned back around, instead heading over to a table mainly occupied by wannabe vampires with too many piercings and wax teeth.

Lancelot felt a bit bad about sending her away, but it wasn’t exactly a stellar idea to allow any interruptions when Kilgarrah was on a tangent about things like Destiny, capital 'D.'

“Can’t you just tell me what it all means?” he tried, but even then he knew it was a lost cause, to have one Angel asking for a straight answer from a Fallen.

“In good time, young one.”

Lancelot held his tongue.

He wasn’t _young_ , but perhaps he wasn’t quite so ancient as the Angel sitting in the seedy pub booth across from him, smoking his sixth batch of acrid-smelling tobacco tonight.

“I guess I’ll be leaving, then,” Lancelot murmured, not expecting to get anything more out of the old man. What had he expected, really? Answers? All Lancelot had were too many questions, and he hardly saw how _Merlin_ fit into this.

What Kilgarrah was talking about was a story that took place nearly a _thousand_ _years_ ago. Two lower Angels fell from Heaven, and they were never seen again— end of story.

Only, apparently not.

But for _Merlin_ to be…

It was impossible. But what if? 

And if Merlin was who Kilgarrah said he was, and he was caught, he would be killed for sure. And not just killed the mortal way—more like blasted out of any physical existence, period. If this was true…

But it couldn’t be. Fallen Angels were liars and dealers and the sorts of creatures that were not to be trusted. Kilgarrah wanted something, he always did, and he wasn’t going to get what he was looking for from Lancelot, whether it be a reaction or an offer back into Heaven for a piece of information, whatever.

Lance was a gentle soul, but he was not a pushover.

He stood from his seat. Kilgarrah, either not noticing or not caring, continued to puff contentedly away at his pipe, in between sips of whiskey.

The room had gone quiet, not even the music could be heard anymore. Odd. All but the bartend on duty with the bicep tattoos had gone completely still; Old men smoking their pipes, young men and women holding trays of half-empty drinks, and a nasty-looking table of patrons who looked suspiciously of Fae blood, all stared at Lancelot as he stalked away from the corner booth. Lancelot zipped up his windbreaker and nodded politely to one of the frozen waitresses.

Wait. _Frozen._

He turned around very slowly, taking a proper look at the roomful of patrons. No one moved. No one blinked.

No one breathed.

They had literally been frozen in time… what the hell?

Only the bartend, who appeared unaffected, went about her business of drying a clean glass with a rag and, while she probably had noticed that her customers were still as statues, she didn’t appear to care very much. Of course— Policy. Jezebel’s employees were under no circumstances to be harassed or violated by magic, or by any variation thereof. Customers knew better.

Even Kilgarrah knew better.

And this was Kilgarrah’s doing, of course. With a distasteful frown in Kilgarrah’s direction, Lance balled his fists, biting his lip before deciding that it was in his best interest to sit back down, even if he didn’t much want to.

So he advanced towards the booth once more and sat, albeit with a great deal of reluctance and scowling- something else that he wasn’t normally prone to doing.

“That’s better,” the slippery Angel said, watching smugly as Lancelot slid back into his side of the booth.

“Release them,” Lance growled.

“Ah ah,” Kilgarrah warned, wagging a finger in the air. “The magic word.”

Lancelot could have blown the booth to bits, and Kilgarrah with it, all with the quickest snap of his fingers.

No, not even a snap; He could have blinked, and that wish could be made into reality. He had the power and he absolutely could do it.

But he didn’t, because nothing within Lancelot could make him stoop as low as that. He had his own power, but an Archangel was forbidden from cutting off another’s Influence, unless they were being threatened. Lancelot didn’t _like_ his situation, but he wasn’t exactly being threatened.

“I’ll listen to what you have to say. Now,  _please_  release them,” Lance tried again, feeling a muscle in his jaw twitch.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Kilgarrah asked, all pleasantness and disgustingly false cheer again. With a snap of his old fingers, each conversation that had been interrupted mid-sentence recommenced without anyone’s noticing that anything had ever been off.

The bartend continued to dry her glass. The Fae people whispered to each other in low voices at their own table, oblivious that they'd been frozen like Medusa statues two seconds ago. Lancelot looked pointedly across his and Kilgarrah’s table and said nothing, but gave a curt nod for the old man to continue.

Sometimes people got the stories wrong; Fallen Angels weren’t always inherently bad, they were just misguided, straying from the path of righteousness in doing what they thought was the best thing.

Kilgarrah was a crooked bastard, but when it came to matters of fate, he always spoke the truth.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Merlin and Arthur left the Hall and hung about the entrance to the gardens. Their return to Heaven had taken place no more than a few hours ago, but it already felt like days to Merlin.

“Your great uncle is Gaius Muirden," Arthur mentioned, standing up from his seat on the stone bench.

“Yeah, why?”

“Are you at all familiar with his work?”

“Not… not really, I guess?” Merlin scratched the back of his head and shrugged. “He’s a professor at… um,” he had to think for a minute. Nope, he was stumped. “He’s a professor at the University of uh, something?” That was a really good question: Where _did_ his uncle work?”

“I think you’ll be interested in his research,” Arthur said, “You see, the Angels know doctor Muirden.”

“Like, _personally_ know him?” Merlin asked. “No way.”

“Yes… way,” Arthur frowned for a moment. Somewhere in the gardens, birds chirped. Serene, quiet, and eternally beautiful, it was so different to be back in a world that felt just north of real. “Doctor Muirden has had a few steady connections with the celestial realm for nearly two decades now. We’re not really sure how he did it— _he’s_ not even sure how he did it. Mucking around with ouijas and tarot cards have gotten most people nowhere, but he figured something out through a combination of Biblical teachings, witchcraft- at least, we suspect it was witchcraft- and a very old telephone.”

Somehow, Merlin couldn’t find it in him to be all that surprised. His uncle really _would_ be the sort of person to toy with that sort of thing and actually be successful. But his uncle Gaius had always been Pagan… so he was taking on a bit of extra study, then.

“I had a thought," said Arthur.

“Uh oh," Merlin said with a grin, "I hope you didn’t hurt yourself too much.”

Arthur’s face was caught somewhere between annoyed and strangely impressed. In the end, he ended up scowling at Merlin, although it could hardly be called angry. Merlin could see that what Arthur _really_ wanted to do was smile back, maybe even laugh and make a joke of his own, but something was holding him back. There always seemed to be something holding the man back. Whatever it was, Merlin wanted to take it and burn it, and then throw the ashes into the ocean.

With a long-suffering sigh, Arthur stood up from the bench and struck up a walk down a random pathway, through clusters of hydrangeas and crimson-winged butterflies; Merlin also saw pansies, which seemed to be a constant whenever he was in the gardens. He followed along next to Arthur just as easily as he'd done the last twenty or so times, comfortable to share space with him when the gardens offered all the safety in the world. “I wanted to check something to see if it works, and since our schedule’s been a bit compromised as of late it can’t hurt to see exactly what sorts of advantages we have on our side.” He was talking about Merlin. Merlin, an advantage? “Mortals aren’t technically allowed to go where we’re headed, but…”

“Right, right,” Merlin said, “I’m an exception to a lot of things.” He quirked an eyebrow, smirking.

Arthur snorted. “Not that I want to fill your head with hot air, but yes, you’ve been an exception to a great many things lately. It doesn’t make you special.” God, what a _prat_.

“I hope that stick up your arse hasn’t been bothering you too much,” Merlin muttered. Arthur’s jaw actually fell open a few centimeters.

“You… you can’t just _address_ me like that, Merlin,” he snapped, appalled, “I am still your superior here.”

Merlin actually laughed, this time. “Right, because I’ve _always_ acted like you’re the one in charge.” Their pace never slowed, with Arthur leading the way on their walk past the gardens, past the Hall, past Imitation London and past a sector that looked like it had been made for people who all dressed like Rev Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof. They walked into a couple buildings as well.

 

The first time they walked into a building, one that looked like a five-star hotel in Monte Carlo, no less, Merlin received a shock when they opened a door to what he’d assumed was a conference room, and stepped out the other end behind Arthur not in a conference room at all, but on a footpath that looked like it had been put there centuries ago. A portal.

There was no pavement, only a trail about a meter wide made of faded bricks so old their surfaces were all perfectly smooth, though uneven, and very difficult to walk along without risking a sprained ankle.

Not a single tree dotted the rolling hills. Merlin thought it resembled the Welsh countryside. Or Scotland, maybe. Grass was grass, but whichever it was, it was breathtaking.

Merlin walked carefully. He could see Arthur’s smirk from the corner of his eye, and gave the man a pointed look until Arthur stopped looking at Merlin like a smug prat, just _waiting_ for the moment when Merlin would catch a loose stone and trip.

 

Arthur wasn’t wrong, of course, since Merlin did trip over a loose brick. Twice.

But Merlin always caught himself before he could actually _fall,_ so he considered it an achievement more than anything.

At the end of the path (about half a mile by Merlin’s vague calculations), they arrived at an archway made of the same brickwork as the path. There was no door.

The rest of the path was visible at the other end, but if Merlin had learned anything at all, it was to never assume that things were as they appeared. Sure enough, the moment he stepped through the archway the footpath was no longer there.

Vanished, it seemed, in lieu of something far, far different. Following after Arthur, Merlin took in their new environment, so enormous it made his head spin, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

 

**-^i^-**

 

“This is the call room,” Arthur said plainly.

In Merlin’s opinion, it couldn’t be deemed just a ‘room.’

The space was… _enormous_ , probably three times the size of New York City’s Grand Central Station. Long tables like conference tables were staggered in neat rows, about twenty across, and from front to back they probably spanned about fifty. More, maybe. The walls were sloped a bit, almost like a tunnel as they rounded out where the ceiling began.

Each table, polished so thoroughly they were close to godliness, seated approximately ten Angels each, and each Angel had their wings out, lax and unhindered since they all had enough space between each seat to avoid clipping someone else in the face with feathers.

In front of each Angel sat an old-fashioned telephone hook; vintage, by the looks of them. All were shiny silver and all looked to be in mint condition, although Merlin couldn’t help but wonder why they couldn’t just use smartphones.

“These telephones are all connected to different realms, different bits of the universe,” Arthur explained, nonchalant and nowhere near as impressed with their surroundings as Merlin clearly was. “We could easily hack into the S.I.S., KGB, or FBI if we really wanted.”

“ _Have_ you?”

“That’s classified,” Arthur said with a smirk. “But we rarely like to interfere. Free will is a very touchy thing these days.”

“So what do you do here?” Merlin asked.

“Anything. Everything. Not really your business.” Arthur glanced over at the nearest table, and Merlin followed his gaze to one of the Angels holding a phone to her ear as she scribbled something down onto a glossy notepad with a gold pen, muttering low into the phone receiver. She looked a tad harried, hair frizzed and definitely not holding with the stereotype of Angelic.

“All right, Elena?” Arthur called over.

The Angel, Elena, looked up from her notepad and gave a clumsy wave in Arthur’s direction. She just about wacked the telephone out of the hands of the Angel sitting next to her. The second Angel, a woman with painstakingly curled, blonde hair and pouty, thin lips scowled over at her colleague, but kept a firm hold on her phone as she chatted into the mouthpiece, clearly busy. Her white dress and black blazer were pristine and wrinkle-free, whereas the frazzled-looking one, Elena, had her white cardigan draped over the back of her chair, choosing to wear just her sleeveless yellow blouse and a white pair of suit pants in desperate need of a good ironing. A gold hairpin just barely kept her messy knot of yellow hair in place.

“Elena may look a shambles sometimes,” Arthur whispered in Merlin’s ear, “but she’s the head honcho of the C3.”

“The what?”

“Celestial Call Center,” Arthur explained, like it was obvious. “If anything goes wrong up here- and things rarely go wrong up here- Elena’s your go-to Angel.”

Merlin looked dubiously at Elena, still hurriedly jotting down notes with the gold pen, biting her lip and disregarding a strand of hair that had since come loose from the pin.

“Really.”

Arthur nodded. “Saved many a Prime Minister from declaring war over a shortage of tea, in her time. She’s also good friends with the Head of Security to the Queen of England.”

Merlin wasn’t sure if Arthur was trying to be funny again, but he laughed anyway. Arthur did, too.

“But really,” he said, “Elena’s done her fair share. Don’t mess with her when she’s busy.” Arthur looked thoughtful for a moment. “So… never mess with her, I guess, since she’s always busy.”

“Got it.” Merlin spared another glance at Elena, whose brow was scrunched up in thought as she responded to something that the speaker on the other end was saying.

“I think she’s on the phone with Vietnam, she only ever looks that agitated when she’s trying to speak Vietnamese,” Arthur commented with an amused look in his eye, steering Merlin to the right as they made their way up the aisle past Elena’s table. Then he leaned in again and whispered, “The woman to Elena’s right is Vivienne, she’s second-in-command here. No one messes with her either, but that’s mostly because she’s a viper.” The words matched the sour expression on his face. “A brilliant viper, but still. A viper.”

“And Elena?”

Arthur shrugged. “People don’t mess with Elena because she’s a force to be reckoned with, especially when she’s angry.”

“Ah.”

“But most of the time she’s a sweetheart,” Arthur assured, “so no one’s really got any reason to tangle with her, anyway. She’s known in the call center as the patron saint of practical jokes.”

Merlin filed that away for a later time. Just in case he ever needed someone to kick Arthur’s arse with him— Lord knows he would probably find himself in want of a partner in crime if he ever got the sudden urge to, say,  dump a bucket of ice water down the back of the Arthur’s designer suit. He didn’t doubt that day would come.

After following Arthur up the aisle and past another ten tables, each seating ten busy Angels, Merlin asked, “Why’ve you brought me here?”

“Like I said, I wanted to try something. Let’s hope your uncle’s kept that old telephone.”

Merlin stopped in his tracks. All around, the Angels continued to work, either noticing Merlin and ignoring him, or talking on their phones, much too preoccupied to care about one mortal. Even if, as Arthur said, he wasn’t technically supposed to be here. Merlin immediately remembered Arthur’s question about his uncle's line of work.

“We’re calling my uncle Gaius?” Merlin asked, stunned. “But… why?” His thoughts went into a tizzy; What would his uncle even _say_? Did he talk to Angels on a regular basis? Did he know Arthur? Would he be surprised, shocked, happy, _scared_ , to hear that Merlin was in a better place and that he was risking everything just so that he could help a bunch of Archangels? Archangels who were a hell of a lot more qualified than _he_ was to do the job they were meant to be doing?

Would his uncle even believe it?

“I just— give me a minute to prepare, yeah?” Merlin’s next breath was deep, slow and steadying; he was nervous all of a sudden. Would his uncle really believe it was him? After all, most dead people didn’t normally just _call_ their fucking _family_ and say, “Hey, no worries! I know I died and all and you’ve been mourning my death for the past month, but I’m all right!”

Normal people didn’t receive calls from the other side. It was the stuff of nightmares and ghost stories.

Christ, what if Merlin gave his uncle a literal heart attack?

All right, he was really, really nervous. He shifted from foot to foot, hooking his thumbs in his coat pockets and bunching up the material, shaking his head as he looked at the floor.

Arthur was face to face with him in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he said, and his voice went soft. “It’ll be fine.”

A hand came to rest on Merlin’s shoulder, warm and grounding and close. Merlin’s next breath was easier, less shaky. He’d already lost so much, he didn’t want his uncle to think the worst of him if he tried to speak with him from a place where mortals were never meant to return from, never meant to reach out from. What was dead should stay dead, Gaius had taught him this whenever he read Merlin ghost stories just before bedtime- something that Hunith always scolded the both of them for doing. The stories tended to give Merlin night terrors.

“Listen…” Arthur said, “I would have just suggested a direct trip, to see him in person, but seeing as the gates are quite stuck and you’re not exactly visible to the Living, that isn’t really an option.”

“So we can really just telephone my uncle right from here?”

“That’s the idea," said Arthur. His expression was warm, if a bit guarded. "If it turns out mortals can work the phones without losing the connection.” So, Arthur was going off the assumption that, if Merlin could work a portal, then he could work a celestial telephone. All right. That sort of made sense.

Merlin inhaled through his nose, thinking it over. “You, erm, but you _have_ done this before? With my uncle, I mean, y-you’ve called him before?”

“Correction: Elena’s talked with him,” said Arthur, gentler. He could see how unsure Merlin was with all of this, keeping in mind just how much he'd been through in the past twenty-four hours alone. “The first time he managed to get a hold of the perfect combination of spells, chants, ritual and prayer, he rang straight through to Elena’s main line.” When Merlin looked back at Arthur, Arthur was chuckling. He shook his head, as if recalling a fond memory. “I wasn’t there, but almost everyone’s heard the story. Apparently Elena was so shocked, she nearly hung up. Thought it was one of the other Angels trying to pull one over on her as payback for the pillow incident," Merlin almost asked what the pillow incident was and just who had been involved, before deciding he'd better ask another time, "but then your uncle started explaining the whole thing, and she put him on speaker for the entire call room to listen in. The man is practically famous to everyone in the C3.”

“Um, you’re saying you can put those old things on speaker?” Merlin asked as he pointed subtly to one of the phones being used by an Angel in a pressed suit and blue tie; he was genuinely curious about how on earth _any_ one could function a vintage telephone with a _phone hook_ and detachable _mouthpiece,_ and somehow manage to set the bloody thing to speaker.

“Yes. And Elena put your uncle on speaker for the entire call room to hear, aren’t you listening?” Arthur muttered, resuming their march towards the back of the room. It was such a big room, and the aisle was so long, Merlin thought that it must be at _least_ the size of a footie field. With all the noise and hubbub in the business setting, it was hard even to hear the soft echoes of their shoes against the marble. It was always marble with Angels, wasn’t it? “He told us everything. Granted, I’m still not sure if he really believes he managed to get a hold of Angels, or if he thought it was just a bunch of people in an office playing along for the fun of it. Either way, we all liked him. We did a background check, and when we discovered he had ties with Balinor Ambrosius, we were even less surprised.”

“Balinor Ambrosius.”

“Yes.”

“My _father.”_

Arthur frowned. He looked confused on behalf of Merlin’s confusion. “Yes..?”

“You mean you actually  _knew_ my _father.”_

Arthur pointedly did not look at Merlin as he continued to lead the way down the aisle. “He has his own connections.”

“Has. Present tense?” Merlin's eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right, and Arthur knew it. Merlin _knew_ he knew it, why else would he be so hesitant to give an answer?

“Ah… right, about that…” Arthur must have said something he wasn’t supposed to say, because he sure looked sheepish all of a sudden, avoiding eye contact while Merlin stared.

“No,” Merlin breathed. Dumbfounded, he asked, “Wait, you’re not saying he’s _alive?_ But- But you said before that he was dead!"

"I never said anything of the sort."

Merlin came to a stop (yet again) in the middle of the aisle. When Arthur’s expression slowly went from innocently passive to rightfully ashamed, Merlin almost stormed out of the call center right then and there. It was one thing for Arthur to keep secrets for business reasons, but this had nothing to do with business. This was entirely a personal matter. And Merlin had been left out of the loop.

“It’s not what you think, Merlin.”

Merlin was practically steaming. “So help me Arthur, you explain to me right here, right now, or I am leaving and not coming back until you finally have the balls to tell me what I deserve to know.”

Okay, so he was pushing it. A lot. But Arthur deserved it—honestly, anyone who kept secrets like that deserved the silent treatment, at the very least. Arthur’s remorseful look began to mix with resignation as he came to the same realization.

“Yes, you’re right."

"I am right."

"You deserve to know. Which is why I’m having you call your uncle right now, I think he's the better person to talk to about this.”

The words "you're right" probably tasted sour and completely alien on Arthur's tongue, but Merlin reveled in the sound. Yes, he was right. And it was about damn  _time_ he got some answers.

 

**-^i^-**

 

The back of the call center had much more space between tables, assumedly reserved to make more important calls. One seat, a single seat out of the room of a thousand, was empty. Set on the table in front of the empty station was a phone like all the others, ‘20s vintage and nestled on its gilt hook, waiting. The only difference that set this phone apart from the others was how disused it looked. If Merlin squinted, he could actually spot a thin layer of dust coating the top.

When he reached for the phone he almost dialed up his uncle’s regular number, but Arthur stopped him.

“The phone line he uses for these sorts of things is different. I’ve got it here, give me a second...” he pulled out a small business card from the breast pocket of his suit, handing it gingerly to Merlin, who took it with a pinch in his brow. A different number was printed onto the card in plain black figures, a regular-looking phone number with an additional two letters at the end: 'I R.'

Swallowing, Merlin dialed the number with a trembling finger and held up the earpiece, tugging a bit at the cord. His hands were sweating.

“It’ll be fine,” Arthur reassured, remaining a suitable distance away to give the impression that he wasn’t listening in. Not that Merlin would have minded too much, but he did think this was a moment better left to a more private setting. He didn’t have that luxury.

The phone rang twice more, before the sound of clicking and rustling came out the other end. Merlin’s heart hammered. He waited.

“...Hello?”

His uncle’s voice.

It was Gaius. It was _really_ Gaius, his uncle was _right there_ on the other line and Merlin could _hear_ him and… would his uncle be able to hear him? Would he be able to hear Merlin?

“Uncle Gaius… this is Merlin.”

“Sorry, say that again? This connection isn’t very good," Gaius Muirden spoke at an unnecessarily high volume into the phone, "Elena, is that you?”

Merlin took a deep breath. “No, uncle Gaius,” he said, enunciating clearly, “this is Merlin. Your nephew. Can you hear me?”

A pause, followed by something rustling on the other end. “I apologize," came Gaius's voice after the pause, "my hearing isn’t what it once was. I could have sworn I heard you say Merlin?”

Merlin held back his tears. He hoped his voice wouldn’t crack— it took everything he had not to break down at the sound of one of his own family, saying his name. His uncle could hear him. This might work… as long as Gaius believed the rest of it.

“I know this sounds absolutely mad and impossible, but yes. It’s me. It's Merlin. I’m all right.”

The other end went silent again.

The silence went on for so long that Merlin began to suspect the line had gone dead from a bad connection. That, or his uncle had hung up, although he really hoped not, oh god, he really, really hoped that that wasn’t the case. But then, if Gaius _had_ hung up, surely Merlin would have heard the _click_ of the receiver. So he must still be there.

"...Merlin?" breathed Gaius, quiet over the receiver.

Merlin swallowed thickly. "Yeah, it's me... hey, uncle Gaius, how are things?”

"Merlin..."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm all right, it’s all right." Merlin laughed, then hiccuped, swiping away the wetness from the inner corner of his eye.

"I don’t understand. How can this be?"

Merlin shrugged. But then he remembered that people couldn't hear shrugs over the phone, and he said, "I dunno. Really, I wish I knew. I've been just as confused as you are, these past few weeks. Months. However long it's been." He tried to laugh nervously again, but not much sound came out.

More silence. Merlin was really hoping his uncle wasn't calling bullshit and hanging up on him. Gaius was their only hope right now, if what Arthur told him was true. Really, his _uncle_ , a celestial occultist?

Okay, fine, so that hadn't _exactly_ been what Arthur said, but a passionate meta-physicist with an interest in Angelic communication was definitely a stretch past what was normal.

 

"Merlin, my boy," Gaius whispered.

Merlin felt like something had caught in his throat. He never thought he would hear the voice of his uncle again. Then Merlin heard him laughing over the phone, a little bit throaty, and it soon became clear that Gaius probably wasn’t laughing, but crying. Or possibly laughing _and_ crying. "I knew it," he said, crackly over the receiver, muffled by something. Maybe he'd brought the phone away for a minute. "Even in death, you're as stubborn as your mother."

Gaius was taking this... surprisingly well.

"Um..." Merlin frowned into the phone, "Uncle Gaius, were you expecting me to call?"

“God no, Merlin, but I am damn happy to hear from you.”

Merlin choked out a laugh. He couldn’t believe it, his uncle was _okay_ and by some small miracle _talking_ to him through a supernatural phone line. And he wasn't calling Merlin out for being some bored office worker, either. And this was probably the best day of Merlin’s afterlife so far.

 

**-^i^-**

  
Apparently, Merlin was big news over on the other side, even if the Angels thought they were being super hush-hush about the whole thing.

No, Merlin the mortal who could work the portals, was a _big deal_ for the lower ranks. If a mortal could work with Archangels, then what was stopping lower ranks from being treated with the same level of respect?

Gaius knew Merlin was dead, but he didn't believe that Merlin was gone. Not really. Not entirely. Gaius explained all of this to Merlin, but only after he filled his nephew in on everything that had happened since... since his death.

"The spirits in the dark are whispering, Merlin. Your father's name has also been circulating around the rumour mill. Seems he's also got a knack for tapping into celestial gossip. Your father was a demon exterminator, you know."

"An exorcist?"

"That and more. He was one of the best. He was one of the few whom the Angels spoke to directly. No one knows why-- No one but the higher powers."

“I wish I’d known…” Merlin shook his head, turning around to lean against the table. 

Another sigh from the other end. “Yes, well,” Gaius said, “you can’t change what’s already happened. Tell me, Merlin, I want to know what you’ve been up to this past month and a half. You must tell me everything.”

 

Merlin did. He told Gaius the whole story, starting at the beginning, from waking up in the Hall of Contracts and thinking he was in Versailles, to mock London, to Gwaine, to Arthur. A lot about Arthur, actually. And Gaius listened raptly to every single detail. Arthur could obiously hear everything on Merlin's end

And Merlin, well, Merlin was relieved to hear that his mum, always the stoic, was not letting the grief stop her from getting her work done, staying strong, and, from what Merlin could guess, actually taking Gaius's advice to get some sleep.

The news about Balinor, however, had Merlin shaken. Worse than that.

His father was alive. He was still _alive_.

Good news? Bad news? Everything inside of Merlin felt mixed up, making it hard to differentiate the good feelings from the bad ones to the ‘I don’t even fucking know’ ones. The part about his father being a bloody exorcist certainly cleared a few things up, but Merlin still didn't know why his father never came back once. Not once, in all the seventeen years Merlin lived alone with his mum, the man hadn't come for a visit. Not a single day, not even to pop by for a cuppa.

No phone calls. No e-mails. No letters.

Merlin didn't want to hate his own father. He didn't, truly, he begged the stars above to give him the patience, the courage to forgive. But... it was going to take a while. A long while. And he would have to see him in person before he ever made up his mind.

After telling what he could about his time up in the hypothetical clouds, standing there next to the table with a hand leaning against the tabletop, Merlin caught Arthur’s eye; the man had that look that most impatient siblings gave when they needed to use the phone, too. Merlin assumed Arthur would also want to speak with his uncle.

“Uncle Gaius…” Merlin sighed. He didn’t want to hang up. He didn’t want to abandon his one real, tangible connection to the mortal world just yet, but he knew how pressed for time they probably were. “Uncle Gaius, I hate to do this, but I’ve got to go.”

“Already?” his uncle sounded downcast on the other end.

With another nod from Arthur, Merlin said, “My friend wants to talk to you. Arthur. He’s an Archangel.”

“An Archangel?” Now Gaius sounded impressed, “I’ve never spoken to one before… but Merlin?”

“Yes?” asked Merlin.

“Do take care. Don’t get yourself into any more trouble, I don’t think my heart can take much more of this.”

Merlin chuckled, sad to leave his uncle’s voice but thankful that he’d gotten this much, at least. A phone call might not have seemed like much to some people, but this was clearly not a privilege granted to just any mortal. For that, he thanked his lucky stars. “Love you, uncle Gaius. You take care, too. Send mum my love.”

“I will, Merlin.”

With that, Merlin handed the phone to Arthur.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Arthur took the phone readily when it was handed to him, having waited patiently through twenty minutes of a one-sided conversation (well, not entirely one-sided. The voice on the other end was just loud enough for Arthur to hear, although he had the decency to pretend otherwise), watching Merlin go from teary-eyed to overjoyed, to reminiscent, to sad again. So many emotions in such a short span of time looked painful.

When he finally had the phone, the first thing Arthur did was introduce himself.

“Good morning, doctor,” he said, putting on an air of professionalism, “My name is Arthur, I’m one of the Archangels up here.” Merlin watched intently, not bothering to his the obvious fact that he was eavesdropping. Again with the eavesdropping; Arthur couldn't catch a break.

A gasp could be heard loud and clear over the line. Merlin grinned. His uncle was probably geeking out _so_ hard right now, talking to an Archangel. “You’re one of the seven?” Gaius asked, not masking his excitement at all.

Merlin looked expectantly at Arthur, but Arthur answered, “Sadly, no. Those are the Thrones. I work for them. I’m not one of _the_ Archangels, but I am, nonetheless, an Archangel. I’m in charge of most of those who aren’t one of the Thrones.”

“…I see. Well, it’s a pleasure to speak with you, Arthur. Do I call you your excellency then, or no…?”

“Arthur is fine.”

Merlin snorted, before turning his head to give Arthur at least an ounce of privacy to speak on more business terms. 

 

**-^i^-**

 

After a time Merlin reached out a hand, curling his fingers in and out, silently wondering when the conversation would finally be over. His foot began to tap. He got a stern glare for it when Arthur caught sight of it. Merlin stopped tapping his foot, but he didn't stop sighing every few minutes, impatient.

Finally wrapping up the call with Merlin's uncle, Arthur took the phone and held it out in front of Merlin, who looked at the phone in bewilderment. “What?” he asked.

“Your uncle politely referred me to you in giving some advice about how to find a certain, ehm, _colleague_ of his.”

Merlin lifted the receiver to his ear, readying the mouthpiece steadily with his other hand. “Uncle Gaius?”

“Merlin, just when I thought I wouldn’t be hearing from you again,” his uncle chuckled, before getting down to business. “Right, so your friend Arthur has informed me of your current situation- he sounds like quite a quite a charming man, by the way," Merlin rolled his eyes. Yeah, Angels could have that effect on people. Merlin wasn't unfamiliar with the feeling. "It is rather a serious thing that’s happened, and there will be no easy solution. Unfortunately there are none that I can give you that will have any immediate effect, so I’m referring you to an old colleague of mine, Geoffrey Monmouth."

"Monmouth?" Merlin repeated. "I feel like I've heard that name somewhere before."

"He works down at the Heythrop library in London. He'll be able to help you-- a bit of a conspiracy theorist, but he's quite brilliant. Mind you don't mention the Da Vinci code to him, though, that man can talk one's ear off when given the proper nudge."

Merlin took note of that. With a nod to Arthur, he reached over for an extra notepad and motioned to the Angel for a pen, which Arthur plucked from the pocket of his own suit. Immediately Merlin started scratching away on the notepad as his uncle instructed, all while Arthur arched an eyebrow, interested but not willing to interrupt. At last, Merlin scribbled down the last bit of information and handed the pen back. Then he tore off the piece of paper from the notepad and stashed it safely into a pocket of his rain jacket.

“Find Geoffrey,” Gaius finished, “he can help.”

“Slight problem,” said Merlin, “we can’t exactly get back to earth. The portal’s stuck, remember?”

“Well, you’ll just have to find a way to _un_ -stick it, then,” Gaius said. Because everything was just that easy, apparently. “It’s either that, or you call him up like you did me. He’s got a celestial cellular of his own.”

Merlin snorted into the mouthpiece. “Of course he does.”

“And Merlin…”

“Yeah?” Merlin asked. Then he waited for a response, but it didn’t come. When Gaius said nothing for a good twenty seconds, Merlin frowned and turned to look questioningly at Arthur, silently asking if maybe the connection had been lost. But Arthur, reading his expression, shook his head.

Finally, Gaius’s voice returned. “Please, I cannot stress this enough, be _careful_ ,” he said. “Your mother misses you terribly, you know.”

Merlin breathed deeply, shutting his eyes and bracing one arm on the desk.

Right. Like he didn’t already know that, but now his uncle had to go and remind him. “I know,” he breathed.

“So you’ll be careful for her, if not for me, too.”

“Yes.”

“Mortals may hold no threat to you now, but I can assure you that demons and Angels alike can still cause plenty of harm.”

Merlin actually laughed at that. “Uncle Gaius,” he said, “no Angel that I’ve ever met has ever so much as laid a finger on me. None of them would ever hurt me.”

“I’m not talking about the Angels up _there,”_ Gaius said, and his voice was hushed. Merlin didn’t really understand what he meant, at first. Then he realized.

“Fallen Angels,” he murmured. He could just about hear his uncle’s nod in affirmation.

“They, along with any other creatures bearing tainted souls, have been whispering amongst themselves. Your father knew this when he came to warn your mother.”

“He did _what?”_ Merlin squawked over the phone. An Angel working quietly near the back doorway immediately held up a finger in the universal _shushing_ motion. Merlin grimaced and lowered his voice. “He did what?” he hissed, “My father came back? That’s imposs—”

“I’m afraid it’s entirely possible, my boy,” Gaius answered. He didn’t sound any happier about it than Merlin did. Merlin bit the inside of his cheek, not wanting to raise his voice and cause another disturbance.

“You- hang on- and when you _knew_ he was alive.” Oh, this was - _ha,_  this was brilliant, just magnificent, how perfectly fucked up this all was. How many times had Merlin been lied to in his life? Forget the fib about Father Christmas or the children’s story about the Stork this, _this_ was bollocks on a whole new level.

“Merlin, try to understand—”

“No, how about you explain to me _why_ no one ever told me,” Merlin answered, not caring how harsh he sounded, speaking to his great uncle like this. He saw Arthur wince from where he stood, but he didn't care. He'd nearly forgotten to mention this bit of important information from the get-go. By the way, uncle dearest, were you aware that my father was not, in fact, dead as your poor nephew had suspected? “My father is alive and neither you _nor_ my mum- my very own mum- ever said a damn thing!”

Another silencing finger was raised by the same Angel, and this time he looked like he meant business. The swearing was probably what did it. This time, Merlin ignored the gesture. “You lied to me,” he bit out, quickly losing his cool. Not that he’d had much to begin with. “Both of you.”

“Let me talk, Merlin,” Gaius said sternly over the receiver. Going silent, Merlin could just about hear the deadly eyebrow that was his uncle’s trademark, rising with the severity in his change of tone. Merlin caught the sound of rustling papers and the _snap_ of a box being shut. A suitcase, maybe. “If your mother were here now, I would have put her on the phone in a heartbeat. As it is, she would probably deny that any of this is real, but-”

“Is she all right?” Merlin interrupted. “Is mum all right? How is she? How is she really?”

“She’s…” Gaius sighed. “She’s fine. Doing some last-minute work at the shop right now. Tired, but she’s fine. She’s your mother, after all.”

Gaius was right, of course, if anyone could march through the day like a fully armoured tank decked out with ballistae and cookware, it was Hunith bloody Jones.

“We’re about to leave for the local church.”

“Why?”

“Your father suggested it. Something to do with keeping us safe.”

“And you’re listening to him,” Merlin growled, “after all the years he was gone, and now you’re just going to—”

“We have no _choice,_ Merlin.” Gaius’s voice came out sounding strained, like the idea pained him just as much as it pained Merlin. “…Your father left for reasons that are better left in the dark.”

“Oh that is rich—”

“ _Merlin.”_

Merlin finally shut up.

With another pained sigh, his uncle continued, “Balinor has made friends in the non-earthly realms, and he has made enemies. Mostly enemies. He’s also very accomplished in what he does, and if any of those enemies ever discovered where Balinor’s family is…”

“Mum…” Ice filled Merlin’s lungs. He was suddenly thankful to already have one of his arms to brace himself against the desk, or he probably would have sunk to the floor, petrified. He had been lied to, sure, but now his family was in danger. Gaius and his mum were in danger- this was a different matter entirely.

“Yes, your mother. And me,” Gaius said softly. “If they find us, they’ll use us to get to Balinor, and after that they’ll be finished with us. Do you understand why we have no choice here, Merlin?”

Merlin didn’t answer aloud, but he knew his uncle had gotten the message perfectly. Yes, he understood. And no, Merlin was not going to allow anything to happen to his loved ones. Even if it meant facing the very pits of hell himself, he was going to protect his family. He was going to help in any way he could, rules be damned.

 

**-^i^-**

 

"Everyone's been keeping secrets from me."

Merlin didn't know what to make of it. It wouldn't be fair to get angry at his mother, who hadn't technically known her husband was alive any more than Merlin had.

And his uncle was a private person already. To be angry at his uncle for keeping his strange branch of study a secret would be the same as getting angry for not knowing which university Gaius worked at, as he probably could have just asked. His uncle wouldn't lie to him. Not outright, at least.

"Are you all right?"

Merlin was touched that Arthur actually cared for something so, seemingly trivial to people as important as Archangels, when Arthur really _should_ be worrying about the fate of the world and.... Yeah. All of that.

Concerning this colleague of Gaius’s, doctor Geoffrey Monmouth, Merlin had never even heard of him before, although the name sounded familiar, he realized, because the man's rantings about celestial communication had been mentioned in an article that Merlin had skimmed over during his theology class in uni. Just the same, Arthur quickly got the number off of an Angel who had a card on hand (no phonebooks, naturally, just cards that gave you exactly the number you needed) and they called the former professor up right away.  
  
From the information Gaius had given them, Geoffrey Monmouth was a scholar who just barely kept a job at Heythrop college in London, and was especially well-known for giving an in-depth lecture about John Dee and the secret language of celestial beings.

Sacked within the week, naturally, but when the university realized just how popular the lecture had made him amongst the students, he was brought back on to teach part-time. The rest of his time he devoted to study.

Doctor Monmouth had, according to Gaius, been going hysterical, finding symbols of the Antichrist of all things, popping up in various places all over London: On the tube, scratched into the train-car seat he'd been sitting in; chalked onto a crumbling brick wall he'd noticed while walking through the slummier parts of Peckham; even 'burnt into his toast at brekkie,' although perhaps that one was just him seeing things.

 

He didn’t sound much saner over the phone.

When Arthur was finished regaling his own story, a very edited and shortened version, the man had sounded entirely enthusiastic, if a bit off his rocker.

“We’ll call you back with a plan within twenty-four hours,” Arthur said with an air of finality, and after a muttered goodbye from the other end, Arthur hung up. For a moment, he just stared straight ahead, looking for all the world like maybe this was a bad idea. If not bad, definitely questionable. Still, it wasn't like they had many options.

“He’s an interesting sort,” Arthur remarked quizzically, looking at the telephone without really seeing it. “But I think he’ll be useful.”

"Let's hope."

 

The lights flickered.

Arthur looked up at the ceiling with a frown. “That’s odd,” he said, just before the call center was thrown into darkness.

“That’s a little more than odd,” came Merlin’s ever-reassuring muttering. He could practically see Arthur pinching the bridge of his nose, like he always did when he was feeling at odds with the world.

“Great,” came Arthur’s voice, amidst the growing volume of a huge crowd of Angels with their phone lines completely severed. No signals coming in or out, from any realm or dimension anywhere. No one yelled, they’d all clearly been trained not to panic—these people weren’t mortal office workers, luckily—but the noise level did increase. Ten thousand Angels did not make for a great crowd to have a private conversation.

“Don’t you Angels have a backup generator or something?” Merlin wondered aloud. He couldn’t hear Arthur’s huff, but he saw the man’s shoulders rise and fall, accompanied by a solemn expression.

“Someone hit the emergency globes!” a woman’s voice called out from close by, loud enough that it echoed around the curved walls and through the tunnel-like structure of the call center. Merlin assumed it was Elena.

The chatter in the vicinity died down almost immediately.

Not a second later, two massive orbs, each about the size of a small automobile, burned to life high above them, a span of about ten meters away from each other. They weren’t electric as far as Merlin could see. The things gave off a warm glow, emulating the natural haze not unlike what the Angels gave off at any second of the day. Not electric, and not gas-powered, either. No flames, not even a set of bulbs, even though Merlin looked very hard just to make sure he hadn’t missed something.

From the looks of it, the globes powered themselves. They weren’t connected to anything, either, floating about a meter below the sloped ceiling. 

“Thank you,” said the voice. Yep, it was Elena. “I know you’re all smart enough to remain calm, so, while you do that, someone fly over to maintenance as quickly as you can. I’m sure Haniel has nothing better to do with her time than mend a few broken InterRealm tele-connectors.” Five of the young-looking Angels standing alert at the front row of tables snickered, all women, so similar in appearance they might have been sisters.

“And anyone who thinks that working in maintenance is a joke can lend Haniel a hand,” Elena said with a cheerful smile. “Lord knows she could use the help.”

The Angels quickly snapped their mouths shut. Nothing more was said on the matter.  

Even then, a couple more Angels a bit farther away continued to whisper, looking guileful as they not-so-subtly pointed in Merlin’s direction. What, was he the one to blame, now?

“You three,” Arthur snapped, catching them as well. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how to do your job, as that’s technically Elena’s business, but if I see any of you gossiping behind your French manicures again I will personally have you demoted. Am I clear?”

Oh, that shut them up. Their pens and notepads were back in their hands in T minus two milliseconds, already scribbling down things that might have been important or might have just been chicken scratch, as their source of communication had been cut off. If they wanted to look like they were busy with any real work, they were sorely out of luck.

A few of the Angels sitting nearby snickered as they watched the three completely wither under Arthur’s look.

Merlin wasn’t sure if it was the way Arthur asserted his superiority with such ease, even when he wasn’t technically the boss here, or if it was the way he looked downright unholy when he was ticked off. For an Angel, Merlin mused, Arthur was pretty damning on the senses.

Either way, Merlin couldn’t help it when his thoughts strayed where one’s thoughts should never, ever stray when thinking about _Angels_ , of all things. Angels were meant to coincide with pure thoughts.

Merlin was not having pure thoughts.

Arthur was scowling, but his gaze wasn’t aimed at the trio now hurriedly returning to their assigned tasks—his focus was on the ceiling, where the globes emanated their soft, grainy light all throughout the call center.

A tiny niggling in Merlin’s ever-curious brain wondered where Angels got their power source from. And also, why did they even need one? He supposed that that was a bunch of metaphysics for another time. Just as he was thinking over Gaius’s warning about demons and Fallen Angels, the main lights flickered back on, bathing the entire room in a flood of cheerful white. The globes automatically powered down.

Nearly half the room cheered, before immediately returning to their interrupted phone calls, not willing to miss another moment of work.

“Someone’s toying with us,” Arthur muttered.

 

A voice _harrumph_ ed from behind.

Elena had since left her station and popped up right near Merlin, without Merlin’s knowledge. He hated when Angels did that.

“I don’t like it,” Elena muttered, impatience painting her face. “Interfering with business, now I’m two bloody minutes behind.” She sighed, then shrugged and ran a hand through her tangled mane of yellowy blonde. “Anyway, I hope you two found what you were looking for, I’ve got to get back to work before the president of Vietnam has a fit.”

Merlin tried not to look too impressed, even though he was, in truth, amazed. Elena was obviously one of those people who just sort of… well, got along with everybody, from the Head of Security for the Queen of England, to the bloody president of Vietnam. God knew Merlin already liked her, too, even if she did seem a bit wild. He’d definitely have to recruit her if he ever felt the need to tick Arthur off; He wasn’t going to let that ego of his grow too large, not if Merlin had anything to say about it.

“Actually, Arthur?” Elena asked, giving Arthur a meaningful glare, “can I have a quick word?”

“Erm, of course.” Arthur glanced at Merlin in apology before setting his jaw, following Elena’s beckoning to a quieter niche where just a few Angels sat fixated on their notepads, never taking more than a brief pause as they muttered into their phones.

Elena immediately began whispering rapidly to Arthur, and she didn’t look pleased about whatever she was telling him. Worried, that was what it was. Elena looked worried. Arthur didn’t look very comfortable, either, the more Elena talked. Every few seconds, her eyes would drift to Merlin, but when she caught him looking back, her eyes quickly snapped to look back at Arthur, who hadn’t noticed. What were they talking about?

Merlin had that _feeling_ , that well-known and well-disliked feeling shared amongst all kids who had ever been bullied in elementary school and high school— the feeling that those people giving you funny looks in the schoolyard and whispering enthusiastically were talking about _you_. Elena didn’t strike Merlin as the spiteful sort, though, disregarding her title as the supreme patron of pranks, or whatever they called her. Still, Merlin wondered what they could possibly be discussing, and what had Elena’s feathers ruffled (although that was just metaphorical, since she didn’t actually have her wings out at the moment).

When Arthur sidled back over a minute later with a sheepish look, Merlin played it off like he couldn’t care less about  Arthur’s conversation, even though Merlin’s curiosity was eating away at his insides. Arthur cocked his head, signaling that they were leaving now.

“You watch yourself, Arthur,” Elena said, glancing at Merlin a moment longer than was comfortable. “Just.... Careful where you step. We all like you up here.” It was odd, she wasn’t talking to Merlin, but the words made little sense when directed at Arthur.

What did _that_ mean? Merlin threw Arthur another questioning look, but it wasn’t met with a response.

With one last nod, Elena was gone, returning to her seat up at the front of the call center; undoubtedly to deal with one greatly befuddled president of Vietnam.

 

**-^i^-**

 

The trip back to the Hall felt different. Shorter. By the time they returned to the Hall of Contracts Merlin had already thought over his uncle’s plan, twice.

Yes, they did have to find a way back down. And yes, whatever was out there was a very big, very real threat, and not just to mortals.

 

The Hall was empty.

When Merlin stepped in first, followed by Arthur, he took in the sheer emptiness of it; it was so quiet. He liked it this way, with the Hall vacant and silent and existing solely to be looked at and admired. Tall windows, the floor as reflective as ever, minimal furnishings and the almost life-size wooden crucifix hanging wordlessly on the farthest wall.

Merlin looked back at Arthur, soft and unsure and completely unaware that Merlin was looking at him, and the sudden urge to step forward and be closer swelled up within him.

He needed some sort of comfort - he felt alone, entirely alone without his family. He couldn't be farther away from his mum, and he craved the warm, familiar, emotional intimacy. No one could understand a child like their parent.

It was times like these when anyone would search for contact. For comfort - closeness. He'd been dead for over a month now.

His mother wasn’t here. His uncle wasn’t here. Merlin could remember the last time he had been hugged **:** Two months ago. That was too long.

He ached for physical contact, comfort, reassurance _, some_ thing; something more than just a pat on the back or a steadying hand on his shoulder.  When he looked at Arthur, he saw a reason to remain strong, to not collapse even when he wanted to give in, to break beneath the weight of the loneliness that was practically crushing him. The meeting with the cold woman, Will’s death, hell, even the unorthodoxy of Merlin’s arrival to Heaven and the other Angels’ treatment of him. Like he was… different, although that part wasn’t explicitly bad.

Merlin just didn’t know what was _wrong_ with him, and he didn’t know why, but he needed to do something about it. Anything to fix what he’d broken. And they kept telling him he hadn’t broken anything—but if not, then what?

If fixing his situation meant going back to earth to fight whatever was threatening his loved ones, he wasn’t going to hesitate. But he needed some reassurance that he _could_ do this.

So, finding his nerve, he stepped back towards the doorway, reaching out, and he grabbed Arthur’s hand before Arthur could say anything about it.

Arthur nearly pulled back in surprise, looking like he was about to protest, but instead he held his tongue. Perplexed, he allowed Merlin to lift his hand and wrap his around it more firmly, like a handshake, only without the shaking bit. Merlin set his jaw, nodding at the confused man. “You made me a promise,” whispered Merlin, “and I made you one. I want to make another: I promise you that I will help you see this mission through, or die again.”

“I… a-all right?” Arthur said. He didn’t look uncomfortable, necessarily, to have his hand suddenly gripped so tightly by Merlin’s, but the look in his eye told Merlin that Arthur did wonder. Merlin caught Arthur’s eyes and held them, trying to tell him everything. He was going to help, he wanted desperately to help, but he didn’t want to be treated as something separate. And when Arthur appeared to see that, he nodded.

 

**-^i^-**

 

When Merlin grabbed his hand out of seemingly nowhere, Arthur didn’t know what to make of it.

But to say it was unpleasant would be a lie.

And then, when Merlin made him a second promise to help Arthur set the earth back in balance or die a second time trying, he was floored.

Angels were taught this from day one; the first call to action for any Angel, especially an Archangel, was to give, to be selfless, and to never back down on your word. Merlin seemed to know these lessons better than anyone, and he was one mortal amongst billions.

All thoughts in Arthur’s mind were derailed, save one: protect this man.

Protect Merlin.

Because if Arthur didn’t protect him, Merlin would find a way to get himself into even more trouble than he supposedly already was. Arthur realized, feeling rather dumb to not have done so sooner, that he cared too much to let a thing like that happen. He cared too much for Merlin than what was healthy for an Angel to feel for a mortal. And it was all happening too fast.

 

A cough belonging to neither Merlin nor Arthur startled them both out of the moment.

When Arthur pulled his hand away, he looked towards the middle of the room to see Percival, whose face was unreadable.

“You called another meeting,” he said, looking out of place, hands clasped behind his back and head low. He wasn’t the only one there, either; Elyan was there, too, and a second more brought Geraint, Galahad and Lucan to the Hall, all somehow managing to appear exactly at the same moment as when Merlin blinked. The last three to enter didn’t realize they’d shown up at a bad time.

Squaring his shoulders, Arthur nodded wordlessly to Percival and let his hand slowly fall to his side, no longer trapped in Merlin’s. When Arthur caught sight of Merlin’s face in his periphery, he looked sad. Or maybe he was embarrassed, which Arthur hoped wasn’t the case. He didn’t want to set Merlin’s friendship back to square one, all for a few seconds and a whispered promise.

But what _was_ this?

This was new territory. More to the point, it was forbidden territory.

He didn’t get so much as a minute to clear his head before Galahad dove in, verbally mapping out every possible area where the source of the power outage could have come from other than Bristol. The meeting began, and Merlin lingered off to the side, possibly waiting for a call to action, maybe a suggestion to go out and find Gwaine or someone else who might be able to offer more information.

A couple of the others immediately made suggestions about who they might be up against, but Arthur, knowing the severity of their circumstances, shook his head at every one. What they were up against, he didn’t know, but this was bigger than demons. Bigger than Angels, even.

It was, well…. _big_ , and they already knew that. _How_ big, that was the question.

With a soft look, unnoticed as the squadron of Angels (minus Leon and Lancelot) fired away ideas, theories, even battle plans, Arthur sighed and pulled his gaze back away from Merlin, refocusing on Geraint’s plan of action while the man continued to spitfire possibilities. Every scenario needed a solution, and they weren’t going to stop with just their ideas—they were looking into requesting outside backup from lower divisions. G.A.s, messengers, celestials who were probably on earth at the moment, but whom the C3 could easily get ahold of and supply information to.

“We could get other mortals in on this,” Galahad suggested offhandedly.

Elyan shook his head. “There aren’t many mortals these days besides the two that Arthur mentioned who even know _how_ to get in contact with celestials, and if we called them they would never believe us.”

“What about that John Dee fellow?” asked Geraint.

Lucan snorted. “You idiot, that man’s been dead for three hundred years.”

“Oh… wait, then why’ve I never seen him up here?” Geraint muttered, curious.

“Because the imbecile didn’t make it to the Pearly Gates, that’s why,” Lucan said, snickering openly low. "Shite, and to think, the Thrones think you're qualified to help us make any sort of decisions."

"Fack off."

“Who’s John Dee?” Merlin interrupted, curiosity piqued. Everyone else finally turned to look at him. Elyan and Percival still looked rather uncomfortable in Merlin’s presence, which was strange, since they were the ones who probably liked Merlin the most out of the group (besides Lancelot, who wasn't here) but the other three looked enthusiastic to continue.

"We are not talking about John Dee,” Arthur muttered. His lips were pursed impatiently as he crossed his arms.

"John Dee was a late sixteenth century cock arse who thought he could 'speak Angel,'” said Geraint, rolling his shoulders with a grin thrown Merlin's way. “Drew a bunch of numbers and symbols and called it the celestial language. Some of us even egged him on, scribbling random glyphs and leaving them for him to find."

"It was exceptionally entertaining," Lucan commented, folding his arms casually, looking much looser than Arthur.

"True, we used to use the Akkadian language when sending important messages. Sort of like our code. Perfectly useful," Elyan remarked, nodding thoughtfully to himself. "But that was a real language, not that Enochian farce.”

“We’re getting off topic,” Arthur intervened. He rolled his eyes, before he uncrossed his arms and strode to the center of the room, silently calling all attention to himself. “We need to keep in mind that the Thrones are going to be watching our every move. One mistake and they’ll send one of their own— this mission is just that high-priority. We’re the ones doing their dirty work, but at least we take pride in what we do, yeah?”

“True.”

“Right.”

“Fair enough, yeah.”

“They might sit around telling us what to do, but we decide _how_ ,” Arthur said, persuasive and clear. Merlin didn’t wonder for one moment why anyone would want to follow him into hell and back. It was effortless for Arthur. Or at least, he made it look that way.

“We’re the ones who actually call the shots,” Elyan added.

Arthur’s head bobbed up and down in agreement. “First things first, we need to figure a way back down. Doctor Monmouth can’t be kept waiting for more than a day, and we need him in order to figure out where we can find a couple objects. The two relics might just help us open the gates and terminate the cause of all of these… problems.” Every shifted, eager to hear the rest. “We’re looking for two objects: A sword, and a staff.”

“Wait, what?” Merlin stepped forward and passed Percival, reaching the front of the little group. “You mean the sword and the staff that that Fallen Angel was talking about?”

Arthur hummed, and spared a brief look at Merlin. “The Seal of the Disir.”

Everyone else went completely still. Shock was written across each face, and Merlin didn’t understand why the reaction was such a strong one. But Geraint answered that, albeit indirectly, a moment later.

“The Seal isn’t prophesied to be seen until the _end times_ ,” he said, shaking his head back and forth in disbelief.

“It’s not possible,” Lucan added, although the addition wasn't totally necessary.

Arthur held up a hand so that no one could say anything more. “Whatever this is, we will proceed as we would for any other assignment. We’ll split up, this time, and meet all together when I send a command. It might not be for some time. Days. Weeks, even, depending on how long it could take to track down the relics. I have Lancelot and Leon doing more reconnaissance Downstairs, so I'm sure they'll have their own ideas to add to the mix. At this point, we don’t have many other options.”

“Yes, but we need to pick our battles,” said Elyan.

Galahad nodded in firm agreement, as did Percival.

 

Gwaine chose that moment to pop in, but Merlin was the only one to acknowledge his arrival. The cherub hung about in a corner, none too eager to join in with the rest of the Angels. He looked ticked that he had to show up for these meetings. Granted, he was already late for most of it.

“We don’t have that luxury,” said Arthur, pressing on, “The scholar with whom I spoke, a man whose life work has been to study and record his findings on anything of the apocalyptic nature--”

“You _cannot_ be serious,” Geraint said.

“As I was _saying,”_ Arthur cut back in, looking much more severe. Geraint had the good sense to shut it. “The Dorocha would be just the beginning. Those demons come from the outer circles of Hell – if they’re only meant as a distraction, I would hate to find out what the main event entails. We’re going back to earth, once we find a way.”

Merlin watched and listened, feeling more and more determined. Living or dead or whatever he was, he wasn’t going to let his mother meet a fate like Will’s, her or anyone else whom he held even the smallest shred of sympathy for. Humans didn’t deserve to be condemned to a world run by demons, although from what he understood thus far, demons weren’t the only thing they had to worry about.

“We can’t go back to earth, Arthur, you know that as well as any of us. The only portals down are all stuck in limbo or severed completely. No Angel can get down.”

“Not without Merlin.”

“Um, I’m sorry, you didn’t just say _Merlin_ did you?” Merlin asked, raising his hand nervously. "As in, this Merlin?" He pointed a thumb at himself. He caught a smirk from Gwaine out of his periphery. Good to know someone still had a sense of humor.

“Yes, yes I did.” The look on Arthur’s face was dead serious. Shit, he was actually being serious. Merlin didn’t like where this was headed. “You’re the unanswered question of the day, Merlin. I want you to try something else."

"Okay..?"

Arthur looked _much_ too proud of himself as he continued to explain his brilliant plan of the day. "You got a portal to work all by yourself. Perhaps if a mortal could operate one instead of an Angel, possibly jump-start a ride down, you might just be our answer.”

So, Merlin supposed, this was his first real job— play celestial handyman to a group of bossy Angels. Sure. He could handle that. He could… probably handle that. "Um... all right? When exactly are we going to test something like that?"

"If I know Arthur," Gwaine muttered from his little corner, appearing no less excited at the idea of tampering with portals, "He'll have you working on the project immediately."

The others groaned.

"The mortal again?" Geraint complained.

"Oi!" said Elyan, "We've got to use everything in the toolbox, don't we? And if nothing else has worked by now, why shouldn't we have Merlin help us?"

"Because he might actually get sucked into limbo this time," drawled Lucan. He didn't sound particularly worried for Merlin's sake.

" _Or_ ," Merlin bit back, "how about I help because I offered to help?"

Everyone stopped bickering to stare back at Merlin. Merlin raised his eyebrows, daring anyone to argue.

If anyone looked less surprised by Merlin's interruption, it was Arthur, whose expression had 'proud,' and something else, perhaps 'possessive,' written all over his face. It sent chills up and down Merlin's spine. But not the unpleasant kind.

 

 

 **-^i^-**  

 

Morgana had been damned.

She had been damned, because she had interfered using violence upon attempting to overthrow her holier-than-thou, pathetic excuse for a brother, in the hopes to take his place as one of the lower Archangels. Undeterred by warnings from her equals and intent on working her way up to the Thrones, Morgana's only goal was, eventually, to take her rightful place on the High Throne.

She’d been punished severely. Her wings were cut off and she'd been thrown into the mortal world with no resources, nothing at all, except the clothes on her back.

But Morgana was resourceful. She thrived in extreme conditions like those.

And she found new connections. She was still powerful, even without her wings, but she couldn’t return to Heaven to take her rightful place—not unless she used every weapon and connection she had to get to Arthur, and destroy him for good.

Connections; Morgana had plenty of those. But very few knew of the existence of one very particular connection, one she had made before she had ever been thrown out of the Heavenly realm. No one so much as whispered the name of the lower Angel, fallen because his intentions clashed with the Thrones. His intentions were tainted. But he refused to believe that he was the one in the wrong. And he wasn’t alone in the sentiment; Morgana had sided with him from the very beginning.

And now, a thousand years later, here they were.

At a  _rendez-vous_ in a shitty flat somewhere in the arse end of London neighbourhoods.

 

No one knew of Mordred’s existence other than Morgana and a few ‘employees’ hand-picked by Mordred himself to do anything he just couldn’t be arsed to do, because unlike the Archangels, Mordred knew how to lay low. He didn’t mind taking up residence in the rubbish pit he called a flat.

Somewhere in the distance, a neighboring flat blasted the song “ _Dirty Sex Money_ ” by the Struts, adding to the atmosphere that was Mordred’s rock-star-inspired lifestyle, without the bit where anyone actually toured around performing music. Mordred just happened to be partial to sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. And archaic symbols painted onto three out of four of the walls in his home.

Most of them looked like rubbish, but the amount of power they contained could easily ward off the most powerful of the Archangels.

But not Fallen Angels.

The lifestyle that had Mordred living on the cusp of poverty had started out as an act, but he soon discovered that a mortal life could be twisted into something fun, entertaining, enjoyable even. As long as he played his cards right-- And he didn’t mind playing dirty. Besides, he could just as easily get up and walk uninvited anywhere he chose, live with riches to rival a king's and have those who believed in him kissing the ground where he stood. But not yet.

No, it wasn’t worth the suspicion. He’d managed to remain hidden for this long.

Mordred’s flat was 300 square feet of empty beer bottles and piles of unwashed clothes – mostly tight jeans and various items made of cheap, low-quality leather. Mordred could afford better, but he preferred to live life on the edge— and under the radar, steering clear of posh believers who had the coin and the motive to hire hunters who would sooner have his severed head nailed to a plaque before asking questions.

 

Upon Morgana’s arrival, Mordred displayed a generous hospitality when he actually got up from the sofa, making his way to the kitchenette where he opened the icebox to grab two beers. Morgana waved away Mordred’s offer, and he shrugged indifferently, snapping off the cap with a bottle opener in the shape of a skull that was nailed to the wall next to the front door.

With his drink in hand, he sauntered back over to the sofa and set the bottle down on the coffee table in front of him. Morgana waited patiently, too restless to have a seat herself. Not that Mordred had offered, anyway.

After a moment's thought, Mordred seemed to dislike the idea of getting the wooden tabletop wet, and reached over to pluck a card from the battered playing deck situated in one corner. He flipped the card face up between two fingers, then flicked it to the center of the table and set the bottle down on top, but not before Morgana caught sight of the Ace of Spades on the corner of the yellowing card.

She smirked. Mordred lived to make everything amusing for himself.

She would end him. She would sit on the Throne in the stead of the Antichrist, and she would kill anyone who refused to bow to her, but first, she would keep the man around to fulfill the destiny he thought he owned, just as a rich man thought he owned not just his big house and his nice cars, but the world itself.

Mordred didn’t deserve any of it.

Maybe once, Morgana thought that Mordred was the greatest thing in the universe and then some, talking about how the balance had already gone to shite up in Heaven, how the idea of rank had already ruined the notion of equality and peace. Morgana bought into all of it—what she didn’t buy into was the idea that Mordred himself was the superior being, or that he was the one meant to lead the masses into a new world, a new order, where the Heavens and the pits of Hell were all ripped apart, forcing everyone onto even ground.

There would be war.

Chaos, misery, glorious disaster unlike anything the world had ever seen; but in the end, those who were meant to survive would walk away from the fight and into an improved, renewed world. A cleansed world.

 

Morgana was all for it. She was powerful, she had always been powerful; she’d been born with the natural talent of communicating with the universe. Time was not an issue when poking around for answers.

As Morgana poked and prodded and demanded answers from the universe, the universe relented every so often. She got her way like that. She always got her way, through some means. Wings did not the Angel make. When world turned on its side, it would turn for her, not Mordred.

 

She told him nothing of this, of course. Instead she said, “It’s started. I have already employed some of my best men and women to follow the two who were left down on earth. And we already have a trail on Arthur and his pet mortal.”

"You would send a scumbag like Agrivaine to do your dirty work," Mordred scoffed, shaking his head in disappointment. "Even for you that's a bit _low,_ Morgana. What, did you promise to shag his middle-aged arse if he did a good job?"

Morgana refrained from picking up the empty beer bottle from the table and flinging it at Mordred's smug face. Only just.

She needed him to do his job more than she wanted him dead - For now. But it was never too late to have a change of heart.

Mordred could read Morgana like a children's book. Even then, all he did was chuckle at her reaction, like a schoolboy teasing some poor girl about her braids or her braces. Mordred, Morgana figured, would make an incredibly perverted schoolboy.

“What news do you have that would warrant a visit to this dung heap you call a home?” Morgana sniffed, wrinkling her nose in revulsion when a fly buzzed near her head. With a tiny spark of light the insect fizzled and fell to the floor, crumbling into ashes as it was burnt to a crisp in less time than it took to snap a finger. It was like the poor thing had flown right through an invisible bug zapper.

Mordred didn’t even blink.

“You couldn’t even keep a few petty Archangels down here long enough for my dear friends to make them a smear on a wall," Morgana's voice was a hiss, contained but ready to strike like a snake in stilettos. "Why?” She had the nerve to stare Mordred down. Mordred overlooked the lapse in judgment on Morgana’s part.

“I miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated _what_ , exactly?” Morgana seethed. “I want them dead, I want them _all_ dead.” Enraged and forgoing her better judgment in lieu of another wave of spite, Morgana picked up the nearest empty beer bottle and lobbed it across the room, where it shattered into a thousand pieces against the cheap drywall. The sizeable crack left behind was evidence of the shoddy workmanship. “I want _Arthur_ dead most of all.” Her body practically shook with her fury. After spending such a long time in the mortal world, her powers had grown almost wild; she was far from being as stable as she had once been.

“Calm yourself, Morgana,” Mordred purred, frowning glumly at the indent left behind in the dry wall, and _tut-tut_ ted at the damage with a shake of his head. Curls the color of pitch swayed back and forth on his head. “I just got the room repainted.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I was unaware that there would be an extra presence when I cloaked the city,” said Mordred. “The cloak couldn’t hold them all. Somehow, they managed to break it. They’ll find a way back down. They always do. They’re like roaches, all of them.”

Morgana scowled. “After that show-stopping act you put on with the lights and Kanen, I doubt they’ll be eager to come back down here any time soon.”

“Morgana, you were once an Archangel,” Mordred started, lounging on the sofa, one arm slung over a back cushion. “You were once an esteemed presence on the Heavenly front.”

Morgana steamed. Literal smoke wafted up from her fingertips. “And I will be so again.”

“And you know why the Archangels come down here in the first place.”

“To seek out anything deemed a worthy threat to the mortals, and destroy it.”

“Exactly,” Mordred said, “Don’t you see, Morgana? Anything I do to threaten these creatures- these sinful, _mindless_ vessels- will have those rats with wings skipping back Downstairs to save their hides. You were smarter than they were, Morgana. You never developed a hero’s complex for those heartless _things_. Perhaps you don’t see it yet, but your Fall was a blessing in disguise.”

“Don’t talk to me about blessings,” Morgana snapped coldly. A nerve had been struck....  _The_ nerve had been struck.

“Morgana...” Mordred sounded almost pitying. Morgana made a point of inspecting the cramped flat again, looking cynical. There were cracks in the ceiling as well, scores of them, but no leaks. The air reeked of black magic. The grate in the fireplace was filled with ashes, and a few rumpled bits of half-burnt paper stuck out beneath the piles of cinders. It was hardly Buckingham Palace, but it wasn't a place that anyone of consequence would ever think to look.

Mordred had adapted _very_ well.

“The Alatum Hominibus are extinct, all died out. I made sure none would ever be born," Mordred said, dull, even a little tired, like all he wanted was a nice, quiet nap instead of some de-winged harpy yapping in his ear. He didn't even look at Morgana while he carried on. "And you were there when I made that decision.”

“I think it was in our best interests,” Morgana affirmed.

“Their leader is the sole testament to their existence— although he was an Angel from the beginning, not an abomination of a mortal.” Morgana waited for him to elaborate further. “...You have heard of Emrys.”

At the mention of the name, Morgana flinched, turning to look at the front door instead of at Mordred’s twinkling eyes. “Of course I have. The Disir spoke of him as my destiny and my doom.”

“That is what he was prophesied to be, when he and I were cast out of Heaven. But I wouldn't be so sure he'll succeed if he has no army to return to,” Mordred said, looking mildly from Morgana to his beer. “And I’m sure you’d be the first in line to blast his wings from his back before throwing him into Hell yourself. He was the one who outed you, wasn’t he?”

“What are you saying?”

 

Mordred gazed idly down at one of his scuffed black trainers, kicking listlessly at a bottle lying on the floor, like what he had to say was actually incredibly boring. Morgana’s jaw worked in her impatience. Her heels clicked lightly against the linoleum separating the pitiful kitchenette from the bedsit.

“As it happens,” Mordred finally said, “I have just discovered something that I’ll bet you’ve been _aching_ to know for some time. I think you’ll be quite pleased.”

“Oh?” Morgana’s perfectly manicured eyebrows shot up. Her head whipped around to look him in the eye. “Tell me.”

Mordred smirked, and pushed himself up from the sofa. Decades-old springs _creaked_ with the shift in weight. A moment more, and Mordred took a step closer to Morgana, wild delight dancing behind eyes that melted from periwinkle blue to a malignant red. The sight would have had a mere mortal shrinking back in terror. But Morgana was her own nightmare, she saw Mordred and his power only as an advantage to be exploited. Mordred leaned in closer.

Morgana didn’t so much as flinch when the man whispered in her ear: _"Emrys has returned.”_

Morgana had been betrayed too many times in her life, faced all that the universe could throw at her, and come out of it battered and broken. But she was stronger for it. She had endured agony, as only a Fallen Angel could understand agony.

But then Mordred whispered something else, and for the first time in centuries, Morgana smiled.

“And I know exactly where he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I make a Harry Potter reference? Maybe?? Kilgarrah’s human form is basically Ollivander with a tobacco problem. And I’m so excited and a little nervous to continue this fic. There will be at least two more chapters (if not three more) after this that will make up Part 2. There is a part 3 planned! Part 4 is a possibility (but we’ll see). Fingers crossed for good things! And please don’t hesitate to leave a comment or shoot me a message, since the words of you, the readers, are what give me the motivation to continue writing. Thanks!
> 
>  **Update** :Hi all! Ok so it's been a while, and unfortunately with school starting back up I've got to put this fic on hiatus. 
> 
> Thanks a million for your patience!


	2. The Invisible Man

 

 

 _With stammering lips and insufficient sound_ _  
_ _I strive and struggle to deliver right_ _  
_ _That music of my nature, day and night_ _  
_ _With dream and thought and feeling interwound_ _  
_ _And inly answering all the senses round_ _  
_ _With octaves of a mystic depth and height_ _  
_ _Which step out grandly to the infinite_  
From the dark edges of the sensual ground.

 _  
_ _This song of soul I struggle to outbear_ _  
_ _Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,_ _  
_ _And utter all myself into the air:_ _  
_ _But if I did it,--as the thunder-roll_ _  
_ _Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there,_  
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.

 

- _Elizabeth B. Browning_

 

 

**-^i^-**

 

 

After what felt like hours, the doors to one very battered, very old lift sat pitifully in the middle of the Hall—which wasn’t where Merlin had meant for them to appear, but at least they’d actually, you know, appeared _._

He hadn’t thought he could do it. Hell, he didn’t even know how he did it to begin with.

The lift doors resembled the ones that the eight of them had returned to Heaven through, looking like something out of a seedy motel or residential building out of the poorest neighbourhood in Britain. The doors looked even worse for wear than the ones from before, almost like a giant hand had reached down and pinched the rubbish material together, crunching the doors and putting folds and dents in the cheap metal.

But they were still doors, and Merlin thought that that was something at least.

The seven Angels hovered impatiently behind Merlin, either lounging at the round table or pacing back and forth like Arthur was, all waiting to see what Merlin would do next.

And Merlin?

Merlin didn’t know what the everloving fuck he was doing.

The task had been to figure a way to fix the portal. So far, they had A Portal.

Merlin cracked his knuckles absentmindedly, brow scrunching in concentration. Since all of the Archangels seemed to be one hundred percent powerless in making the portal function, Merlin was their best bet.

Merlin could swear he’d heard Geraint muttering something about how they were all “royally screwed.” Gwaine (and less frequently, Arthur) offered up a few words of encouragement, but encouraging words were not at all what Merlin needed when he seriously didn’t know where to start. He needed some directions. Guidance. A whiskey and coke, perhaps.

He didn’t even know how he’d made the doors appear in the _first_ place.

All he’d done was… willed them into existence. Probably? But it’d still taken more time than he’d anticipated.

Now, Merlin huffed, running both hands through his hair, feeling out of his league and daunted by a task that would normally be taken care of by someone more qualified and – oh right, _not human_.

Still, there was plenty of room to test some new theories.

“If we’re in such a hurry to get down to earth,” Merlin muttered as he glared at the hopelessly inert lift doors, “couldn’t you, I dunno, freeze time or something? Can’t Angels do that?” He growled again when the doors gave no reaction to another _push_ from his thoughts. Why wasn’t it _working_?

He’d been doing everything right, saying everything right. Bloody hell, his Latin was almost flawless, and the doors hadn’t budged an inch. Even the _fores apertas_ chant he’d borrowed from Lancelot had proved useless.

He heard a huff from behind. Arthur was the one who answered. “Merlin, I don’t think you quite understand how time works.”

“Sure I do,” said Merlin, pulling his focus away from the doors to glare at Arthur instead. “You Angels,” he pointed around the room, “can bend time all you like, even freeze it if you want, or I’m pretty sure I heard that—”

“All right, _first_ of all,” Lucan interrupted, “no, you’re wrong.” Everyone else went painfully silent. Merlin’s mouth snapped shut. Lucan, usually so calm, looked rather ticked off by Merlin’s accusations, and perhaps he had some right to be. “Second of all, not just any Angel can freeze time, and even if they _could_ , it’s considered quite rude. So you can eat your words, mortal.”

“Is that really necessary?” Elyan muttered from his chair by the table, where he was giving a cursory read-through of a document that looked like a contract—in fact, the messy, golden signature at the bottom gave Merlin the growing suspicion that it was _his_ contract.

“What d’you mean, ‘not just any Angel?’” Merlin asked.

His focus was now completely stolen from making any progress on the lift, but no one seemed to be complaining. At the very least it was a break in the incredible dullness that was the endless waiting around for a portal that might never be fixed. At least everyone suddenly looked like they had more energy than a pile of stones.  

Arthur, although a little exasperated that they were cutting into precious time, didn’t seem to have it in him to complain.

He was the one to break into the conversation. “He means,” he said, and everyone turned to face Arthur readily, “only the most powerful of the Archangels can freeze time. Ancients. Thrones. But not us,” he sighed. “And the concept of bending time is still a bit out of our grasp, although we’ll make every claim otherwise if other mortals ask.”

“How d’you mean?” Merlin’s curiosity was boundless. It grew more and more insatiable each time he found himself with the chance to discover something new about this realm— the one in which he was meant to be spending the entirety of his afterlife. He might as well know how things worked. It was only a matter of time before he chipped away at these feathery arses for some good answers.

Arthur rubbed at his wrist, looking thoughtful when he glanced Merlin’s way, and Merlin returned the look with a skeptical one of his own.

“I assume you’ve heard the phrase, ‘time in an illusion,’” Arthur offered, and Merlin cocked his head minutely, confirming as much. “Although we hate to admit it, it’s pretty true. Time up here really is just that. It’s an illusion.”

Arthur made a grand sweep of a gesture with his arms as he explained, and this time, not even Lucan said a word. Not that any of them word dare interrupt Arthur.

“We can make it feel like two minutes has been stretched out over the course of ten hours, or make a day feel like a second. But for all we can do up here, things keep on moving forward Downstairs. Time continues to tick by. Nothing freezes, not unless someone in very high power makes it so. Nothing stops.”

He shrugged.

The funny thing was, when Arthur said it like that... it made sense. To Merlin, at least.

It was probably an incredibly simplified version, Arthur’s explanation for how time worked between the realms, but Merlin could only guess that it was a lot more complicated than all that. Because everything just had to be that complicated up here.

“Not to be the buzzkill or anything, but isn’t he supposed to be fixing the portal?” Galahad spoke up from his seat in between Percival and Geraint, scribbling random glyphs on a stray piece of parchment he must have conjured up, since Merlin assumed there probably wasn’t a back room filled with office supplies in the Hall. “Or attempting to, I guess?” He didn’t look up once from his scribbling.

Merlin still thought he was decidedly less rude that Lucan.

With a heavy sigh, Arthur nodded, looking at Merlin in apology. “Right,” he said. “Can you think of anything else that might work?”

“The chants don’t seem to be doing any good,” Merlin murmured as he crossed his arms. His teeth worried his bottom lip while he turned back around, thinking.

Soon enough, he was lost in his thoughts again, trying to come up with a creative solution and failing miserably.

“Don’t suppose anyone’s got lube on them--”

“ _Gwaine,”_ everyone said. They all turned to look at each other. Merlin bit his tongue to keep himself from laughing.

Gwaine held up his hands defensively, but even Arthur’s snap had been halfhearted.

Frankly? Any ideas were up for grabs, now that everyone else was officially stumped. Merlin had to hand it to Gwaine, he could keep the mood up even in the most critical of times. They were practically on the Apocalypse’s doorstep – in the words of Geraint – and somehow, Gwaine was still cracking jokes. Not like people’s lives were at stake here, no no.

If they’d left it up to Gwaine, the guy probably would’ve gone right to the doors and had at it with a pair of pliers and some axle grease. No, actually, he probably would’ve knocked. That was what he’d done to get the portal _last_ time.

Merlin’s eyes flew wide. The idea struck him the second Gwaine caught his eye.

What if it _was_ that easy? Heaven acted like a stubborn bitch for Merlin at the best of times.... It was never that easy. Which was why no one else would think of it. No one but Gwaine and, through the transitive power, Merlin.

Squaring his shoulders, Merlin took a step towards the battered doors of the lift, then another, speeding up when he felt like the doors might suddenly fly backwards or sink into the floor if he gave them any warning at all.

The rest of them watched, bewildered and maybe a little amused, as Merlin walked right up to the doors, and knocked.

Seven times, to be exact. He counted. _It couldn’t really be that easy, could it?_

Merlin stepped back with a bit of apprehension, and waited.

Seconds ticked by. Everyone in the Hall held their breath…

 

Nothing happened.

A good minute went by, leaving Merlin to stare at the doors. He could hear the unanimous, heavy sigh of at least three Angels coming from behind him.

"That... was underwhelming," said Galahad, leaning back in his chair as he abandoned the scratchwork on his paper. "Am I using that word right? I feel old. Anyone?"

Feeling rather steamed, lips pressed tight and hands thrust furiously back into his coat pockets, Merlin whirled on his heel and stalked in the opposite direction, swearing.

“Stupid, bloody things!” he growled. He shook his head, feeling almost bad as he caught sight of the resigned look on Arthur’s tired face.

It just wasn’t fair. They were all expecting so much of him, but did anyone think to ask about how Merlin was feeling in all of this? Sure, he’d offered to help. Of course he had. But the rest of them hadn’t offered up any ideas at all. And that _excluded_ Gwaine's idea to use lube.

There was only so much a person could handle at a time, dead or alive. Merlin didn't know what to do.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He pressed his lips together, then opened them to say, “But this portal’s going to take a lot more than one fool mortal to get it working.”

He angrily turned around again to shout at the doors. Shouting at stationary objects was never a particularly kind thing to do (or a particularly sane one) but he did it anyway.

“Yeah? Not gonna cooperate, are we? Fine!” Merlin caught Elyan quietly turning away from the scene, possibly embarrassed for Merlin’s sake. Merlin didn’t care. “Bugger it all, I’m _done_ . Make me feel useless, eh? Couldn’t just do everyone a favor and _open up.”_

_Ding!_

Elyan turned back around, jaw slack. All the others just about fell out of their seats.

The darkened, rectangular screen above the doors blinked to life, flickering yellow before switching to a cool, professional blue.

The dented metal doors slid open like they’d been freshly oiled, soundless but for a gentle, sophisticated _swoosh,_ and when Merlin caught sight of the interior, he mentally applauded himself, although he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to not only open the damned things, but also return the musty interior to its rightful, five-star self.

Marbled flooring, stainless steel ceiling and walls, and space big enough for ten, maybe more.

Of all the ridiculous… _well, shite,_ Merlin thought. And it had only taken him, what, four hours?

“You…. Well.” surprising everyone else in the room, Lucan spoke up first. “I... You did it. Okay.” Slowly rising from his chair, Lucan fiddled with one of his cufflinks before he caught Merlin’s eyes with a look that _might_ have been an apology, but also might have just been a trick of the light. Either way, the next words he spoke were sincere enough. “I’m, ehm, well. Sorry. That we doubted you about…” he waved at the open lift, “You know.”

Merlin laughed, a little breathless.

He’d done it. He’d fixed a portal – and by shouting at it, no less.

“Thanks,” he said, shrugging as if to say, _not really sure how I did it, but I’m glad you don’t hate me._ “Apology accepted.”

“Well done mate!” Gwaine cried, actually bounding up from his corner to come after Merlin with an appraising slap on the back. Merlin grinned, still not sure how he’d managed but honestly not caring. If it meant their plans were back on track for returning to earth, he was just glad he could do it. Whatever it was he’d done.

“Nice one Merlin,” Elyan added with a smile. His eyes held an apology. It might have had something to do with feeling guilty for having his own doubts about Merlin, at least in the beginning. Everyone else must have, too, but at least Elyan was being polite about it. Merlin was glad that there was at least one other adult in the room.

“I think it’s about time we went back down, yeah?” Elyan suggested.

“I’m afraid you won’t be coming with us, Elyan,” Arthur said, solemn. Elyan’s face fell.

“What? Why?”

“I’m afraid we need to keep someone up here, in case we need to get a message back.” Arthur really did look sorry. “It would be much quicker to have someone already here, to relay messages back to a higher authority should we need it. You’re the best man for the job.”

“You’re _leaving_ me here,” Elyan looked ready to argue as he ignored the sideways compliment, but Arthur held up a hand. It wasn’t an unkind gesture, but Merlin could imagine that Elyan’s feathers were at least a _little_ ruffled.

“It’s in everyone’s best interests that we have someone on standby as a just-in-case," he explained plainly, "It’s not such a horrible thing to stay here, Elyan.”

It didn’t seem to matter to Elyan, who still looked right pissed off. At least he had the good conduct to keep his mouth shut. Arthur was a patient man, but God only knew what he was capable of when someone didn’t follow direct orders.

Merlin shuddered to think about it.

He felt bad, he really did. Elyan was his friend. The fact that he had to stay up here, while the _mortal_ went galavanting around down on Earth - that hardly seemed like a fair deal. Merlin would be annoyed, too, if he was told to keep out of the action while some newbie human got special preference.

“There’s really no time to lose,” Arthur said. His voice was steady, his shoulders squared.

 

 

**-^i^-**

 

Lancelot caught up with Leon an hour after leaving Jezebel’s, in bad spirits but with at least a little more information to go on. The only problem was he couldn’t actually _share_ some of it.

Telling Leon about Merlin meant telling Arthur about it, because God only knew Leon couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut around the guy. You know someone a couple millennia, and suddenly you’re thick as thieves.

If Arthur knew what Lance now knew… Well.

And then, Lancelot wasn’t even one hundred percent sure that Merlin _was_ what Kilgarrah had implied.

A Fallen Angel?

Could Merlin and Emrys be one and the same?

If this was true, Merlin would have popped up on the radar as a Fallen. As in, immediately. The Fallen had an aura that practically screamed _disobedient! Insubordinate demon! I exist only to destroy, to slaughter, to steal! I’m right here, come and get me!_

Lessons in Heaven were not taught lightly. Consequences were very much real, and they were nasty, not quite as Heavenly as the pure, profound facade of the Pearly Gates.

Okay, the Fallen weren’t really demons _,_ but Angels saw the Fallen as pretty much the same thing. Dishonourable, selfish, self-preserving, corrupt. The scum of the Earth and Heaven, and everything in between. Kilgarrah was one of the lucky few who was allowed to walk the Earth without the fear of the Angels being sent after him for punishment.

That was only because he’d proven useful. At times.

The legendary Emrys, on the other hand, was unseen and unheard. When rumours began to spread, there was no one there to defend him. _He_ couldn’t even defend himself, seeing as he was, well, _missing._ Assumed dead, really. Nonexistent.

An idea, nothing more.

Emrys might as well have never existed. Back in the Old Days, Archangels rarely interacted with messengers, and not even the oldest messengers would step forward to admit they had ever known Emrys. The risk of banishment was much too high.

How could one of the most powerful Angels of legend have disappeared for a thousand years, presumably blasted out of this plane of existence, only to reappear as a mortal?

And then _die?_

Merlin didn’t seem like a Fallen Angel. There was nothing about him that set off alarm bells in Lance’s head, nothing that screamed malignance and wickedness. The furthest thing from, actually. It didn’t make any _sense_ , and since Lancelot was no fool, he was going to keep this under wraps until he talked to Merlin himself.

One thing was true, though: Merlin wasn’t a regular mortal.

“Any news?” Leon asked as soon as he caught sight of Lancelot, standing a little off to the side of an old Church that was no longer in use. Its stone walls were crumbling and the gate in the front was rusted and gnarled with vines. The air was chilly. Good thing Angels didn’t get cold.

Lancelot shrugged. "You first."

Leon reported his findings. Which was to say, "Fuck all."

"Nothing? Really?"

"Not in the UK," Leon muttered. He looked frustrated, which wasn't a good look on him. "May have to fly to Israel for this one. You?" His zipped up windbreaker was useless against the wind, but he didn’t care. Night chill didn’t seep into his bones like the chill of a demon or phantom did.

“I spoke with Kilgarrah.”

“And?” Leon sounded surprised. Kilgarrah wasn’t someone exceedingly easy to find. He was only found if he wanted to be found.

“Cryptic bastard, as usual.”

Leon huffed a laugh. His breath was visible in the chilly air. “Nothing unusual then. Did he have anything useful to say, at least?”

Again, Lancelot shrugged. He wasn’t keen on giving anything away, not before he spoke with Arthur. Or with Merlin. “He did say something interesting... well he said that Arthur needs to be protected.”

“Arthur?" Leon made a face. "He’s normally the one doing the protecting. Did the old coot say _why?”_

With a frown, Lancelot reluctantly admitted, “He mentioned something about Emrys.”

“ _Emrys?”_ The look on Leon's face made him look like Lancelot was talking about something that didn’t exist. Like a fairytale or a ghost story. And sure, that was what Lance had been thinking, too, up until an hour ago. But now?

“He was… unclear,” Lance tried, hoping Leon wouldn’t read too much into it. Lance wasn’t necessarily _lying,_ but he still felt like he was acting a touch dishonest, and for an Angel - especially an Archangel - it was a risky game to play.

“Wait, so you’re saying Emrys is alive.”

Lance hesitated. He didn’t _know._ Kilgarrah had done nothing but imply - and what he’d implied was much more complicated than a simple, “Emrys is alive.”

It was more like, “Hey, the legendary Fallen Angel Emrys may or may not be back, and you’ll never guess who he really is!”

It sounded impossible. And it might as well have been, seeing as this was totally unprecedented.

And if anyone, it was _Merlin_ who needed the protecting. Just until they figured this whole mess out.

“I don’t think clarity has ever been his forte,” Leon answered while Lance stood with his hands in his coat pockets. A few stray curls succumbed to the wind and he flicked them out of his eyes. “He _must_ have said something else, right? Tell me that wasn’t all you got out of him.”

“It wasn’t much that we didn’t already know,” Lance murmured as he looked around, in case anyone was lurking around nearby. He couldn’t feel any sort of presence, but sometimes that didn’t mean anything. Demons could learn to cloak themselves. They were as old as the Angels. They’d had time to figure these things out. “He told me about a Staff and a Sword. About the Seal of the Disir.”

This time, Leon looked twice as intrigued as before. Stepping in closer so that their words wouldn’t be caught by anyone passing by (although no one was around this area, especially not this late at night) he said in a hush, “The Seal.” Then his eyes grew wider. “It’s breaking, isn’t it?”

“It’s going to break, yes.”

Leon made a gesture, as if to say, _And?_ “So what do we do?” he asked.

“Find the relics?” Lance suggested.

“I’m sure if Kilgarrah knows about this, then Arthur must already be on the case.”

"Right..." There was a rustling from the row of untrimmed hedges nearby, in front of the only three houses in the little  _cul de sac_ that culminated with the crumbling church at the very end of the drive. "I say we get out of here," Lance said, shivering. 

"I second that," said Leon.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Geraint, Galahad, Lucan, and Elyan, were bickering. Thousands of years old, adults in every sense of the word, superhuman and capable of enormous feats, and yet…. bickering. At least Percival had the sense to stay the fuck out of it, preferring to keep to himself at his chair while he watched the drama unfold. One thing Merlin really loved about Percy was his sense of... well, his common sense. He may have been the largest Angel of the bunch, but he was also - probably - the softest. He didn't say a whole lot to Merlin, but he did have a winner's smile. He was real. A very organic personality, especially for an Angel.

Gwaine finally intervened when the argument began to reach its climax.

“Look!" He said as he stepped in between the four arguing Angels. Arthur stood off to the side, rubbing at his temples and muttering something. A prayer, probably. "The people who are going Downstairs are the people who go Downstairs. It’s done. Nothing to be done about it, yeah?” Gwaine gave a pointed look at Elyan. “The best thing we can do now is to _not_ sit on our feathery arses waiting for something to do.”

“He’s right, Elyan,” Arthur said, in uncharacteristic agreement with Gwaine.

Gwaine looked all too smug. “Ahh, y’see? Princess Fairy Feathers says _I’m_ right,” he said, jabbing a proud thumb at himself.

Elyan had that look on his face that most people usually get when they’re preparing to slap someone.

Arthur stepped in just in time. Gwaine smirked. Elyan growled, but the two of them backed off.

"Gents, the lift may shut any minute," Lucan said. "If we could hurry this along...?"

In the end, Elyan was left to grouch in the Hall of Contracts. And the rest of them, well, they shouldered each other and crowded into the elevator as they had before, ready for a second trip Downstairs that hopefully (see:  _hopefully)_ didn't get them all trapped in limbo. Or worse.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Time was a weird thing in the lift. Merlin never knew if he should be counting minutes, seconds, or hours.

In the end, the lift let them off in an alley behind a pawn shop. Merlin was allowed off first, and following close behind were Arthur, Lucan, Gwaine, Galahad, Percival, and Geraint.

They all wore the same “regular clothes” as they had on their last, so-called mission, with the same pressed, red v-necks beneath navy windbreakers. That was where the similarities ended.

Gwaine still wore the charm around his neck, the one made up of Celtic twists that Merlin still couldn’t decipher. The cherub also wore faded jeans, dirtied army boots with over-the-top laces, and a leather band around his left wrist with some sort of sigil stitched into it. Percival got out of the lift behind him in sturdy-looking black jeans and heavy boots, his buzzcut and burly shoulders stretching the windbreaker and making him look like a soldier who'd just gone off duty.

Then there was Geraint. Geraint’s getup was less punk rock, more fifties greaser, with rustler jeans, brand-spanking new black chucks, and the collar of his half-zipped windbreaker popped like he was one slick son of a bitch. Which… he was.

An Archangel with epic sideburns and a solid gold handgun tucked into the holster of his belt _did_ make him pretty slick. Merlin envied his bravado, but at the same time he wasn’t a fan of the jeans. Everyone was entitled to their opinion.

Galahad sidled out next, chewing a wad of bubblegum. He wore ratty chucks, skinny jeans and a crimson band tee-shirt beneath his hooded windbreaker. _The Killers._  At least he had a sense of humor. Galahad was also the most youthful-looking out of the bunch, younger than even Merlin with his soft face and bright eyes. Yellow curls that ended just below his ears gave him that classic Angelic vibe, although the piercing in one ear ended up retracting a little from the overall effect.

Galahad was also the oldest of the group (just after Arthur). Merlin never would have guessed. The bloke didn’t seem to give many fucks about age, though. Maybe just _being_ that old made you less inclined to care all that much.

Following Galahad out of the lift was Lucan, cool and carefree as always. Neat jeans. Nondescript grey tee-shirt - Lucan was the only one who didn't sport the trademark red tee like the rest of them. No piercings to speak of. The gently curling brown hair and thick eyelashes were just a couple of the misleading qualities that made him look the most honest and innocent out of all of them, even next to Galahad. Harmless. 

Anyone who interacted with Lucan for more than a second knew that physical appearance was as close to innocent as he was ever going to get. Just short of breaking the rules of Heaven, Lucan was about as rebellious as an Angel could be. Gwaine could try his damnedest, but at the end of the day it was Lucan who slipped easily into the role of Heaven’s Little Rebel.

Arthur ended up leaving the lift after everyone else. _He_ was probably dressed the most normal out of everyone: No accessories, not a hair out of place, not so much as a wrinkle in his v-neck. His windbreaker remained unzipped, his combat boots unmuddied. Normal, yes.

Natural? Not exactly.

They split up. Gwaine wholeheartedly rejected the idea of going off alone with Lucan, so he was paired up with Geraint instead. Galahad offered to go with them as well. So did Percy.

Lucan accepted his lone role of scoping out the city perimeter with a shrug. His expression always remained placid. Cool.

It was with a scowl that Merlin realized he wasn’t a fan of Lucan, and neither was anyone else. Merlin didn’t trust the guy. But if Arthur trusted him, then Merlin wasn’t going to say anything.

So while Lucan went off to do his thing, Gwaine, Percival, Geraint and Galahad were assigned the task of watching over Heythrop for any… suspicious activity. Gwaine, Merlin knew, would complain the whole time about being a “glorified babysitter,” but that wouldn’t keep him from doing his job.

Merlin, naturally, went with Arthur.    

The streets of Kensington were busy. The weather was nice, if a bit brisk, and Merlin couldn’t keep away the comfortable, familiar feeling that he associated with being close to home here in the city.

West city itself was far from similar to Merlin’s old home. Kensington was an affluent area, rich in history and crawling with people who had money and knew how to use it. Merlin knew enough to read the signs as they walked along in the early afternoon, down a stretch of clean, white pavement. They were on Kensington High Street, and as Arthur pointed out for lack of a better conversation starter, they were about to pass by the Embassy of Israel. A tall, black gate, partly covered in climbing vines blocked off the dignified, though large, building from passersby. Trees stood high on the front lawn and looked down on citygoers and tourists. Merlin looked for a second before Arthur’s voice drew his attention back to the conversation, which had begun to lean more towards subjects of the, um, _apocalyptic_ nature.

Merlin had missed the first part of the sentence, only catching, “-of Disir must remain closed.”

“What _is_ the Seal of Disir?” Merlin asked. No one had answered him back in the Hall of Contracts. He felt like he had a right to know. They’d brought him along, hadn’t they? They needed him. And he needed information if he was going to help them at all.

This was _about_ him, even if it was indirect. It was absolutely about him. Even if no one would admit it to his face.

They passed by a man who looked very important with his Italian suit and fine leather briefcase. The man was on his phone and talking animatedly in French, and he brushed past Merlin like he wasn’t even there. Merlin frowned, but Arthur didn’t seem to notice.

Arthur sighed, squaring his shoulders. Merlin made a mental note to ask where they’d all gotten the matching windbreakers. They looked a sight better than his own raincoat, which was shit, even if the powers of Heaven had scrubbed it clean from his last so-called adventure down on earth. He refused to dwell on it until this whole mess was over and done with.

“The Seal of the Disir is the…” Arthur snapped his fingers. “How do I put it…”

“In as few words as possible,” Merlin said in a deadpan. “God only knows an ignorant mortal like me can only understand so much.”

“Since _when_ have I ever said you were ignorant?” Arthur looked well and truly baffled by Merlin’s comment. His eyes were wide when he looked over. “I _never_ said that.”

“No,” Merlin muttered, “but your Archangel mates implied it. Multiple times.”

Another sigh, long and tired.

Arthur was clearly at his wit’s end. Calm on the surface perhaps, but then, Heaven had taught Merlin that appearances meant absolutely shite. They meant nothing.

“Don’t listen to them, Merlin," he said in a clipped tone, "They’re just a little high-strung, they don’t actually mean it." Arthur eyed a woman (also on her phone) as she brushed past Merlin by with a swish of her white Sunday coat. “If something they’ve said is bothering you, please, _tell_ me.”

Merlin huffed.

He received a warning look for his trouble.

“Merlin, I do _not_ think you are dumb,” Arthur insisted, although his voice was soft. “A little insufferable, perhaps, but never dumb.” His insistent gaze bore into Merlin, who looked away.

Another man in a suit and tie passed them without a glance. Merlin scowled when the man nearly stepped on his foot as he walked by. What was _with_ people these days?

“Then tell me what the Seal of the Disir is. Don’t you dare try and worm your way out of this one, Arthur, I mean it. I don't want a repeat of my father.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose. Merlin wasn’t quite so annoyed as to not find that adorable, even now. He was a forgive and forget type of person by nature. But some people just deserved to be messed with, sometimes.

“One way to think of the Seal of the Disir is to think about a door,” Arthur began to explain, sounding ready to end the conversation already. They were making their way past Kensington Square Gardens, now. Merlin resisted the urge to ask if they could take a route through the gardens instead of around. “The door leads to four places: Heaven, Hell, Earth, and Purgatory.” He counted off on his fingers as they walked. “There’s a lock on the door - well, it’s a little more complicated than a lock, but I digress. _That_ is the Seal. The Seal is what keeps the door from opening.”

“What happens if the door is opened?” Merlin asked carefully. The air wasn’t cold, but he zipped up his rain jacket anyway.

Arthur’s expression clouded. “A rift is created between the realms,” he said. “The separation between worlds would be gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone?’” That didn’t make any sense. A door that led to four _enormously_ different places? How could one little Seal keep a door like that shut? Containing such a thing sounded nigh impossible.

“Just… gone,” Arthur explained, although he did add for Merlin’s sake and peace of mind, “The Seal is not impenetrable. Keeping a multi-dimensional portal contained? The Seal will weaken with time.”

It suddenly struck Merlin, what must be going on.

“The Seal is going to break,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Unless something is done to prevent it,” Arthur agreed, then sucked in a breath as they kept walking. “Which is why we need to speak with your friend, Doctor Monmouth. If he can help us find a way to locate the relics, we can stop the ones who would try to break the Seal.”

Still rightfully confused, Merlin asked, “Won’t it break, anyway? You just said it was weakening.”

“And with the right kind of power, it can be fortified. Restored completely, even.” He sounded confident in this. Maybe he was talking that way for Merlin's sake. Merlin didn't feel like having it sugarcoated for him. 

“What… what kind of power?”

“One Archangel, and one Fallen Angel.”

Merlin’s breath hitched.

_A Fallen Angel._

Merlin had always been curious. Now he was _curious_. “What Fallen Angel would agree to help you?”

“Kilgarrah, we hope,” Arthur replied without hesitation. “A Fallen who remains mostly neutral in the war between Heaven and Hell. If we can sway him, we might be able to get him on our side.”

“Kilgarrah...” The name was disturbingly familiar. But for the life of him, Merlin couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. It was like someone had spoken to him in another language, one that was inherently _him,_ one that he could understand and he alone. He shivered. “You think he’ll decide to help us?”

“If we can convince him,” Arthur said tightly. He sounded strained. Merlin wondered if Kilgarrah was as powerful as the rest of the Angels were hoping he was.

“Are there any others?”

“None who would help us,” Arthur said. From the sound of it, this conversation had taken a turn that he really, really wasn’t in the mood to continue. “They’re all either in Purgatory, paying for their crimes, or in Hell, paying for even worse ones. Believe it or not, the the king of hell was once an Angel.”

Something in Merlin’s memory rang a bell. “Oh right… wasn’t, like, the _devil_ once and Angel?”

“Satan,” Arthur affirmed. “He has many people who work for him who hold similar power. The worst out of those is Uthr.” His eyes lowered to the pavement. "Uthr, the Terrible One."

“Was he also one of the Fallen?” Merlin asked as he caught the look on Arthur’s face. A breeze whipped through the streets, swirling through the gold strands of Arthur’s hair and blowing Merlin's into his eyes. He brushed it out of the way. "Uthr? He's a Fallen Angel?"

“He is,” Arthur said. His voice was flat. There was no emotion there at all. “He was my father.”

Merlin nearly stopped them both in the middle of the sidewalk. “Your _father,”_ he said. He tripped over a crack in the pavement but caught himself just in time, before Arthur could extend a hand to help him.

“The one who was instilled with the Will of God to create me from the stars and the sun, yes,” Arthur said, completely monotone.

His words were nearly lost in the sound of the wind whistling down the block, through the branches above their heads. “He gave me a soul. He lost his own a hundred years later.”

“Arthur, why didn’t you-?”

“He despises me,” Arthur spat. Then he caught the hurt look on Merlin’s face, and suddenly he looked ashamed. “I made a promise to myself after he fell. I would never be like him.”

Merlin was afraid to ask what Uthr had done, to warrant his own exile. Mostly he was afraid of how Arthur would react. If it hurt to think about it, just like it hurt Merlin whenever he thought about his own father. What could have been.

“We need to focus.”

“Right…” Merlin stumbled to catch up, following Arthur past the big houses and beautifully manicured lawns.

 

If they had no other Fallen on their side with the power to fix this Seal, well… they were really in for a mess, weren’t they?

Apparently the unease was showing on his face. Arthur’s tone turned around quickly, from dreary and grey to something much more reassuring. The change nearly gave Merlin whiplash. “Don’t worry about it, Merlin. We’ll find a way. The first step is talking to this Geoffrey fellow.”

It was almost funny how Arthur, whose shoulders bore the heavy responsibility of taking care of the known world, was trying to offer Merlin some reassurance. Some random mortal who was lucky enough to be back here on Earth with no clue what he was doing.

He was playing this whole thing by ear, if he was being honest with himself. Everyone else was just sort of... telling him what to do.

Everything else was kind of by instinct, like when he’d fixed the portal.

“I just - I just don’t understand why it was me," Merlin murmured as he zipped up his rain coat further. "Why not someone else? What makes me so special from the rest?”

“Don’t ask me.”

“I’m asking you.”

Arthur _humphed._ They never slowed pace. "You... make me question some things, Merlin."

"How so?"

Arthur didn't respond for a moment. He appeared to be thinking very hard about his next words, and that only made Merlin more anxious to hear the rest.

"You make me think about a lot of… things." Huh. Eloquent, Merlin thought. "The way things are done, the way the Upstairs is run and... and I don't know what to make of it." Arthur's shoulders sagged all of a sudden. It was one of those rare moments when Merlin really got a peek at what was going on underneath. Chaotic and questioning, so controlled but so close to spinning wildly _out_ of control, if he was just given that little _push..._

Merlin, thinking the answer over as they crossed a busy street with more ease than was normal for morning rush hour, knew what Arthur meant. A little bit.

"What," he asked, only half-kidding, "You mean how Heaven makes mistakes?"

It was precisely Arthur's prolonged silence that cemented the answer.

Arthur had known only this life, a certain set of rules, bent and changed a bit as years wore on, and yet, had he never witnessed the powers of Heaven make a mistake? Merlin wondered.

Or was it that this mistake was so centered on one, single mortal, such a strange outlier from the rest solely because he saw things that mortals weren't meant to see?

Merlin saw empty streets up in the Imitation London when, by all accounts, the illusion of Heaven's Glamour should make him see throngs of people, crowds and vendors and shopkeepers and neighbours, yet not a soul graced the sad city.

His once-beloved London was a ghost town up there. It was lonely.

The feeling that plagued Merlin ever since the first day of his arrival was an overwhelming loneliness. Because he had met no one who shared what he saw, met no mortals who would talk to him about how they existed with such perfection, how they bloody _tolerated_ it. The Angels would talk to him and respect him, even joke around with him, and by all the evidence Merlin had seen, they all seemed fond of him.

They weren't mortal, though. They could hardly say they shared the same experiences.

"Heaven doesn't make mistakes," Arthur murmured, almost to himself, unseeing while the two of them braced themselves against a chillier gust of wind and passed over the kerb, heading towards a park surrounded by a low, stone wall. "That is what they tell us. What has been the way since the time of Creation.”

“And me?” Merlin asked, referring to his situation as a whole. His premature death. His unexpected gift to see the "wrong" things in Heaven. Just everything about him, really.

“You-- I don't actually know, Merlin. I really don't know.” Arthur shook his head, a funny little shake that people do when they’re too tense to laugh but too amused to tell anyone off. “But I want to know. And not just to satisfy my own curiosity." He threw a hesitant glance Merlin's way, and Merlin offered up a smile. "I don't know what makes you so special. But I'd like to find out. And..." he took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself for something.

What could be so daunting that Arthur would be acting like this? Normally he was collected, so good with his words, never fumbling over them- especially when what he had to say was of the utmost import.

But here was Arthur, the Archangel who spread himself too thin at the best of times, trying to fumble through as well as he could. Typical, of _course_ he'd be lost if he thought he was about to get _emotional_. All over one mortal.

“Spit it out, then,” Merlin said.

When Arthur looked around, he was met with a wide, disarming smile.

He exhaled slowly. "I don't want you to think that I want to find out just because it's my job, right, to fix things up there and keep things running smoothly. I mean," he was beginning to stammer a bit, which Merlin found almost funny, and carried on earnestly, "I _do_ do this because it's my job, but I also want to find answers for you. Because—"

"You made me a promise. I get it, Arthur." Merlin shot him another smile, wry and honest. Merlin was content to shrug and leave it at that. Hopefully, it was enough to tell Arthur, “You don’t have to say anything that you don’t want to.”

It looked like the offer for an easy way out had Arthur relieved, because the next minute he was back to his old self, insisting that Merlin not do anything rash while they were down here. This was a matter of the fate of the world. It wouldn’t do any good for Merlin to muck it up.

“Another thing,” Arthur said as they walked, “No matter what it looks like, Merlin, _you_ are not the mistake. If I ever hear you talking like that again, I’ll leave you down here myself.”

Merlin grinned. They kept walking.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Doctor Geoffrey Monmouth was just as barmy in real life as he was over the phone.

The library wasn’t crowded. In fact, Merlin only counted five people, probably students, in the main study area. It was noon, and a Sunday. Merlin doubted many uni students would want to be hanging around the library on a Sunday morning; they’d be at home getting last-minute work done or nursing hangovers.

Merlin looked around, eyes everywhere.

It wasn’t a huge library, but it was a library, and libraries had always excited Merlin. “Where d’you suppose Monmouth is?” he asked distractedly, nose up towards the ceiling. The ceiling was higher than he’d anticipated.

The library itself wasn’t exactly what he’d anticipated, either. It looked more… boring.

He wasn’t sure if it was just the size, or the décor, which wasn’t anything special, or the fact that it looked more like a regular old university library than the haven of a wizened, occult professor who gave lectures on metaphysics.

He was still looking at the ceiling, lost in thought, when Arthur turned and reached out to flick Merlin’s ear.

Merlin gave a start, wide eyes blinking as he reached up to touch where Arthur’s hand had been. “What was that for?” he asked.

“Maybe stop staring at the ceiling and _focus,_ Merlin,”

Merlin made an annoyed little noise in the back of his throat. Arthur _shushed_ him with a finger to his lips. “Library,” he said quietly, lips quirking in a self-righteous smirk. Merlin rolled his eyes.

From what his uncle had told him, Merlin knew that the professor would be here around this time, doing research and organizing the books. Gaius hadn’t given him the exact room, although a library with just one floor and a few different study areas shouldn’t be all _that_ difficult to navigate. Of course, there were also the faculty offices, but according to Gaius, Dr. Monmouth didn’t exactly, um, have his own “office.”

After his initial sacking, the man had been let back on as a part-timer with no tenure, and his replacement had gotten his old office. That said, Geoffrey Monmouth, professor of theology, philosophy, and metaphysics, was given a broom closet. A literal broom closet. And that, it appeared, was to be his “office” for the remainder of his time here.

Poor man just couldn’t catch a break. Merlin hoped they hadn’t come all this way just to meet a bitter, crotchety old professor who’d been shortchanged out of being taken seriously.

“Maybe try the section on Angels?” Merlin suggested. Arthur brought a hand up to smack Merlin (gently) on the back of the head.

“Where have you ever heard of a library having an _Angel section,_ Merlin?”

Shrugging, Merlin didn’t seem to think he’d said anything remarkably stupid. “Just a thought. And quit it with the hitting, yeah?” He backed up a step, just in case Arthur tried to smack his head again. It hadn’t hurt - it was just a “playful slap” as Arthur would have put it - but it was still annoying. It made Merlin feel like he was five again.

Arthur complied and sighed, eyes wandering the room.

The two of them blended in well enough, Merlin thought. He was plenty young to still be a uni student, and Arthur certainly looked young enough as well, although he was more likely to be mistaken for a grad student than, say, a first year. Merlin assumed they wouldn’t be bothered.

Except, Merlin noticed one of the students hanging around the study area. A girl, he assumed she was a student, sat alone at a table nearby. She had a great, thick book in front of her that was open towards the end. One hand rested in the middle of the book, holding it open, and the other was pushing back a great wave of black hair that had fallen over one eye.

Merlin caught sight of brightly painted nails, yellow like she’d dipped them in lemon juice and dandelions. She was really very pretty, but what bothered Merlin wasn’t her looks. It was at whom she was looking _._

Nailpolish had her eyes on Arthur. That much was clear from the way she looked up every few seconds, only to look back down again, her eyes skimming what might have been the same line of text over and over.

That in itself wasn’t all that weird. Arthur was a good-looking man, he was bound to draw a _little_ attention. But a lot of it would be counterproductive, especially right now.

What was weird was when Merlin turned his head to look directly at the girl, she barely spared him a glance. She caught Merlin’s eye for all of one second, winked, and went right back to staring at Arthur. Then her eyes wandered down a little lower, and Merlin suddenly felt the urge to walk right up to the girl and tell her to go back to reading her damn book, instead of staring at the backsides of strangers.

Jesus, what had gotten into him?

Arthur looked like he’d found something. He struck up a walk past the first five rows of bookshelves, and Merlin picked up the pace to follow. He looked back over his shoulder.

The girl with the nailpolish didn’t pay him any mind, but she did look disappointed at Arthur’s going. Feeling marginally better, Merlin turned back around with a smirk on his lips.

When Arthur caught it, his eyebrows pinched. “Care to share, Merlin?” he asked. He frowned when Merlin quickly shook his head.

“No.”

“Then what are you smiling for?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.” He didn’t sound convinced.

Together, the two of them passed the smooth, square tables and rows of shelves, heading into the next room that was surrounded on all sides by yet more shelves, but filled mostly with tables and chairs. Another study room. But this one was empty.

At the far end was a sectioned off part of the room with at least ten rows of shelves that looked much older than the ones in the first room. Arthur stopped for a moment. Merlin did the same, listening.

Yes, someone else was here, somewhere in the corner behind one of the older shelves. There was the sound of brittle pages being turned slowly, quiet muttering, and then the _thunk_ of a book being dropped on the wood paneling of the floor, followed shortly by a muffled, “ _Blasted, bloody thing!”_

Geoffrey?

Arthur seemed to think so. He had already begun to walk towards the source of the noise, his own footsteps quiet on the wood. With a shrug, Merlin trailed him to the far corner of the room.

They were four shelves deep when Merlin caught movement from behind a shelf packed with old volumes that were, according to the little sign, dedicated to Biblical studies. Yep, they seemed to be in the right place.

“Doctor Geoffrey Monmouth?” Arthur inquired from behind.

The man nearly dropped the book he was shelving and fumbled for a moment. Grasping the book firmly by the spine with one hand, he brought the other hand to his heart.

Arthur backed up a step.

“My apologies doctor, I ehm, didn’t mean to startle you.”

Merlin bit back a laugh. Doctor Monmouth’s eyes were enormous, but only the portions that were covered by the little spectacles, making him look like some newly-discovered breed of owl.

The eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he asked, adjusting the spectacles. “I don’t recognize you as a student here. Are you the new theology professor?”

“Doctor Monmouth, my name is Arthur.”

The look on the professor’s face transformed immediately, as well as his entire demeanour. He was so surprised, in fact, that he dropped his book to the floor, where it landed for what must have been its second time with a _thunk_

“The _Archangel?”_ Monmouth said, looking Arthur up and down, taking in his appearance, his clothes. His expression remained surprised, but with it, a touch doubtful.

He probably hadn’t been expecting to meet an Angel who wore a windbreaker and jeans.

But then, there was just something about Arthur… no matter how he was dressed, there was really no mistaking him for what he was. When he looked at you, it was like looking into the mirror and also seeing home. Angels had the power to bring you immeasurable comfort through their presence alone.

At least, that was how Merlin had since begun to see Arthur.

Doctor Monmouth swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing and stopping at his bowtie. “Y-you're here! It is an honor to finally meet you, your excellency.”

Arthur waved the title away. “Arthur, please.”

“Arthur…” the professor seemed at a loss for words, for a moment. A little jumpy, he quickly reached down to pick up the book he’d dropped. Merlin squinted, making out a title embossed onto the ornate spine of the old book: _Essays on Revelation._

“May we speak with you?” Arthur said, using that warm, polite voice Merlin remembered hearing on his first day in Heaven. _“Will you sign?”_

He felt warm. But Arthur was speaking business, and there was certainly nothing warm about their being here today. The professor was going to be receiving some very bad news, Merlin hoped the man was good under pressure.

“Yes, yes of course,” said Geoffrey, rushing forward a little too eagerly to lead them away from the bookshelves. Arthur and Merlin gladly followed him back into the empty study room.

Then the professor paused. He turned to look at Arthur with his heavy eyebrows furrowed somewhat. “Sorry, did you say ‘we?’”

Arthur quirked his head in Merlin’s direction. “Of course. I wouldn’t leave Merlin out of the loop.” His words were pointed, and very obviously meant for Merlin as well as Geoffrey. Merlin rolled his eyes.

“Merlin, of course!” Geoffrey said. His face lit up. “Gaius’s boy!”

“Afternoon, doctor Monmouth,” Merlin said, giving the professor a little wave.

“Merlin, my dear boy!” Geoffrey said, clapping his hands together happily as he looked around, which confused Merlin greatly. “So glad to finally have a meeting with you. Your uncle’s told me so much... um...”

In a way, it was flattering to have someone know all about you before you’d even met them. Or maybe it was just creepy. “Nice to finally meet you too, sir.”

Merlin noticed something rather odd about doctor Monmouth, and it was that the man seemed to be having some trouble making eye contact with him. Quite a lot of trouble, actually. He was looking towards the opposite side of Arthur, instead of the side where Merlin was standing.

Merlin searched the man’s face, trying to catch his eye. He had no luck.

At first, he thought maybe he could attribute it to near-blindness and old age. After all, the man was wearing a pair of spectacles with _very_ thick lenses.

Then the professor posed a question that made the situation odder still.

“Merlin, where are you hiding?”

Merlin blinked.

Geoffrey glanced at Arthur uncertainly, before turning to look at the nearest row of shelves, maybe in case there was someone hiding just behind the eighteenth century German textbooks. Merlin’s brow pinched.

When he looked at Arthur for an answer, he found Arthur looking back at him, but _his_ expression wasn’t confused. It was just... disappointed.

Merlin looked back at doctor Monmouth, who was now looking just to the left of Merlin. Merlin waved a hand in the air, trying to get the man’s attention. “Doctor? I’m- I'm right here?”

Geoffrey looked startled.

“Where is here?” he asked, aiming the question at Arthur who, frankly, wasn’t being very helpful. Geoffrey whirled around in a circle, making himself look even madder, then swiveled back in the direction that Merlin’s voice had come from. But his eyes landed in the wrong spot - again.

“He can’t see you,” Arthur said quickly, leaning in to whisper in Merlin’s ear.

It finally dawned on Merlin, why so many people on the way here had brushed past him on the way here, like he didn’t exist. He was invisible.

And he’d forgotten. Or maybe he’d just been in denial..

Arthur cleared his throat.

“Doctor Monmouth, I feel I should clear a few things up. If you would so kindly show us to your office?”

 

**-^i^-**

 

“Can you… could you pick up that book over there?”

Merlin looked at Arthur, worried. “Can… _can_ I do things like that here?” he asked. “While I’m like - well, like this, I mean.” He gestured to himself, which would have been very vague by itself. Geoffrey sat attentively as he waited, fiddling with his bowtie.

By now, Arthur had grown quite used to Merlin and his odd ways of communication, which often involved strange throat noises when he was unsure of things, or the way he gestured to very vague objects or people when he was trying to describe something. Honest to God, it was almost like learning another language for Arthur. Good thing he already spoke a few hundred.

He nodded. _Yes,_ he seemed to say, _you can still pick up a damned book if you’re dead._

Merlin sighed. But after a stern look from Arthur, he gingerly reached over and picked up the topmost book from the stack on Geoffrey’s desk. _The Occultist’s Guide to Runes._

He used both hands, turning it over so that the cover side was facing Geoffrey, standing it straight up in a way that it was easily readable.

The professor let out a gasp of delight. He jumped to his feet, beaming. This was not the reaction Merlin had anticipated, but not the worst thing that could have happened.

It did seem to dawn on the professor a moment later, then. What it meant about Merlin. He slowly sank back into his chair.

“My dear boy, I am so sorry.”

Merlin swallowed, slowly lowering the book back down onto the desk. “Yeah..” he said. His throat felt a little scratchy, like he needed a glass of water. “Me too.”

"Your uncle never told me. I had to hear the news from Arthur here," he glanced apologetically at the man in question, "and I will admit I was a little distracted during the call. It's not every day you get a call from an Archangel." He laughed an awkward laugh, but catching Arthur's expression he stopped short and exchanged the laugh for a guilty look. "B-But I am so glad you could make it here today."

Geoffrey lifted a hand in the air, like he was going for a handshake. Merlin reached for it, but Arthur gently put a hand on Merlin’s before it could meet Geoffrey’s. He shook his head, a small movement meant only for Merlin.

For Merlin, it translated to quite possibly the worst news he’d received all day.

 _That doesn’t work on the Living._  

The air in his chest constricted. His ribs felt too tight around his heart. Of course, why should anything good ever happen to him?

Geoffrey also looked a little put out, but he did lower his hand as well, understanding.

“I see,” he said softly. Instead, he squinted through his glasses and raised a finger, pointing it around the general area of Merlin’s spot, where he’d held up the book.

Then he poked at the air and nearly jabbed Merlin’s nose with his index finger. Arthur snorted.

Geoffrey’s thick caterpillar eyebrows scrunched close together.

“Invisible,” he breathed, “How absolutely incredible. Merlin, am I looking at you right now?” He blinked, trying to focus on something that he couldn’t see at all. “Tell me if I’m looking at you.”

Merlin cleared his throat. “Um, you’re very close,” he said, nearly choking on his words. If doctor Monmouth couldn’t even see him, would his mother or uncle ever be able to see him again, either?

_Don’t think about it._

“A little more to your left, doctor,” Merlin said. Doctor Monmouth blinked again and turned his gaze a few more centimeters to the left. His eyes were just about lined up with Merlin’s line of sight.

“Perfect,” Merlin said.

“Merlin,” Geoffrey said at last, “It is a pleasure to finally, erm, meet you.” He chuckled, trying to be good-natured. The professor’s eyes wandered elsewhere. Merlin felt alone.

 

**-^i^-**

 

After explaining as much as either of them could without revealing too much information - Arthur had warned Merlin that spies were everywhere these days - the professor seemed to have enough information to go off of.

He clicked his tongue, running a finger along the spine of one of his precious textbooks atop his little desk. Secondhand, by the looks of it, just like everything else in the broom-closet-turned-office.

“Yes, well, the books I would normally use for this sort of research would be just over in the last room you saw.” The study room, he meant. Thank god.

Merlin was ready to get out of this cramped broom closet already, even if it _had_ been refurbished to look like new. Just because it looked like an office didn’t mean it was the size of one.

Clearly, Arthur felt the same way. Shooting Merlin a wink that he nearly missed, Arthur adjusted his windbreaker and stood up, being the first to make his way out of the tiny office. Geoffrey let Merlin to go ahead of him, allowing enough room to be sure he wouldn’t tread on the back of Merlin’s feet, which were still quite invisible.

Back in the study room, Geoffrey went right back to the row of shelves where the three (well, two, since Merlin hadn’t been properly introduced then) had initially met.

Geoffrey’s head whipped from side to side as he considered his options. His little half-moon spectacles reminded Merlin of the headmaster from the Harry Potter books, but everything else was slightly more modern. Slightly.

Doctor Geoffrey Monmouth sported a sharp, well-fitted tweed suit, a burgundy button-down and a grey, pinstriped vest over said button-down. Not exactly the height of fashion, but he certainly looked the part of an eccentric theology professor who specialized in, as he put it, “Angelic Communication.”

Making his decision, he headed towards one of the shelves back against the wall. The little sign hovering from the shelf over the aisle read: **Biblical Studies: Jude - > Revelation.**

Merlin didn’t feel like following. Something about the word "Revelation" didn't sit well with him. Not in the context of all this Biblical rhetoric, but maybe he was just being dramatic.

“You can sit down if you like,” Arthur said to him, nodding to the row of empty tables nearby.

“Not a chance,” Merlin said breezily, refusing to sit on the sidelines like a small child waiting for the parents to finish having their grownup chat.

Arthur looked ready to argue, but in the end it didn’t matter, because Merlin was coming whether Arthur liked it or not. Merlin flashed him his brightest smile.

Arthur looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“You said you were looking for something on the Seal of the Disir?” Geoffrey muttered from behind a stack of books he’d somehow managed to pull out from amidst the hundreds on the shelves. “I only remember reading about it vaguely, but the books that mentioned it are quite a bit older than these,” he pointed at the stack in front of him. “One book in particular, very hard to come by. I paid a pretty penny for it back in seventy-eight." He stroked his beard for a moment, embodying every stereotype ever created for professors of philosophy. "I do still believe I got the better end of the deal.” He hummed to himself, seemingly pleased with his bargaining skills.

Merlin raised an eyebrow, wondering how much one book could possibly be worth.

“The man who sold it to me said there were only ever five of these beauties printed. Ever.”

Oh, so it was worth something, then.

“Do you remember what the book was called?” Arthur asked.

Monmouth nodded vigorously. “Just a minute, I’ll be right back.” His eyes flickered between Arthur and the space of air to his left, where he must have assumed Merlin was standing. He had the wrong side yet again, but at least he hadn’t forgotten.

They both watched the old professor walk even deeper into the row of shelves, disappearing round a corner. Merlin shifted from foot to foot.

The volumes looked plenty old, certainly older than Merlin and possibly older than Geoffrey himself, although Merlin wasn’t going to say that out loud.

A few moments later Geoffrey emerged with one, sturdy book in hand. He held it up proudly, then grimaced a little as he reached out a finger to swipe away a thin layer of dust coating the front.

The title must have looked promising to Arthur, because he reached for it at once with a focused gaze and tightly-set jaw. The cover said: _Traversing the Realms: Rituals, Relics, and Their Respective Purposes._

The font was in a fancy script, and the embossed text in the leather was so faded that Merlin almost couldn’t read it. No doubt the thing was older than dirt. Merlin wondered what it was doing hanging around in a public library.

 _Probably,_ Merlin assumed, _because no one would ever think to look back here._

And by the looks of it, he would be right. The study room was still quite empty, and if the book hadn’t been stolen by now, then that had to count for something.

“This,” Geoffrey said with more than a hint of pride, “is the oldest book in my collection. I keep it buried underneath all the Bible materials back here.” He chuckled. “No one seems to give a damn about those things anymore, anyway.” He flipped through the pages carefully, holding the book with the same posture that a choir might use when holding up their music for a performance. Merlin was almost expecting a full-blown lecture from the professor right then and there but, mercifully, that wasn’t the case.

Instead, doctor Monmouth handed the book to Arthur, who took the volume gently in his hands.

“This chapter here,” he said, tapping at the page he’d opened it to, “this should tell you what you need to know about the relics. The Sword and the Staff.”

He shook his head, and for a moment his gaze looked to be elsewhere, like his thoughts had traveled back to another time and left his body in the library.

“I remember when this subject was popular among the religious theorists, back when I was just a young thing in university," he mused. "I went to Cambridge, you know. With your uncle in fact, Merlin!” he added, nodding in the wrong direction. Again.

“Oh,” Merlin said, giving a cough in the hopes that the professor would actually turn to look in the right direction for once. He was _not_ going to pick up a book every time he wanted to get someone’s attention. Thank god that at least Arthur could see him. “That’s very nice.”

“Hmm,” Geoffrey nodded, still lost in his thoughts.

“Thank you, doctor,” Arthur said, all politeness. It was like he never turned off the charm. Merlin wondered if he _could_ turn it off. It was infuriating, because Arthur could be a right prat at times, but he never stopped being charming, and it didn’t help when all Merlin wanted to do was be angry at him, or frustrated with him. But that was a problem for another time.

“Do you mind if we look through this by ourselves for a bit?” Arthur asked kindly, holding the book firmly as though it were a precious artifact.

In truth, it probably was.

Geoffrey nodded with immense enthusiasm. “Certainly, certainly!” he said, holding out his hands to gesture at the book grandly. He looked like an inventor at a convention presenting his latest creation. Merlin rolled his eyes for the third time in the same hour, but luckily, Geoffrey wouldn’t see it.

It was just a book, for the love of god.

Sure, maybe it held some answers to stopping the apocalypse, but those were just details.

“Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you.” Arthur gave the professor a winning smile and shut the book carefully. He'd probably memorized the page number already.

“Merlin?” he said, which was Merlin’s cue to follow him.

 

**-^i^-**

 

They sat comfortably in the empty study room, looking through their borrowed book. Geoffrey had said that, regrettably, he was not able to allow anyone to remove the volume from the library without explicit permission from a higher-up. Even though the book was technically his.

Arthur had insisted that it was really quite all right, they wouldn’t be long and only needed to find one particular piece of information.

The book, it seemed, talked mostly about inter-realm travel, as well as all the seals and locks and things that kept the doorways to different worlds shut. Merlin tried reading the thing for all of twenty seconds before getting hopelessly bored. That was when Arthur took over. "First you tell me you're not an idiot, and then you prove yourself to be completely hopeless," Arthur muttered, joking as he slid the book around.

Merlin muttered something rude under his breath.

"What was that?" 

Merlin stared at him challengingly. "Nothing at all."

 

The most popular doorways mentioned in the book were, unsurprisingly, the ones to Heaven, to Hell, and mentioned to a lesser extent, to Purgatory. The book did mention there being ties to other realms besides, but the details were vague. Long story short, having locks on all the doors was important as shit. _More_ important, even.

The only part of the book that ever discussed the three doorways having any sort of connection at all was at the end of the chapter, where the Seal of the Disir was mentioned all but once. But there was at least half of the book still left to go. 

“It says here that to repair a rift in the seal, an Archangel and a Fallen Angel together must wield the ancient relics that were created at the beginning of time itself,” Arthur murmured. "But we already knew that." His shoulders had fallen a bit, making him look smaller in his chair although, Merlin thought, that should be impossible. Arthur was something superhuman, larger than life with wings that could fill the space of two more people. If Merlin looked closely, he could just make out ripples in the air from behind Arthur. His wings.

Not gone, just hidden.

Merlin blinked, looking at Arthur with a baffled expression. “And?” he said, letting his head fall to the side like a confused, mildly adorable cat.

“Like I said, nothing we didn’t already know,” said Arthur, although there was something else. “If we can just find out _where_ they are…” Another page flipped. It crinkled, old and disused. The pages were so yellow and stiff that Merlin feared they might snap into pieces if someone so much as tried to doggy-ear one of them.

Merlin huffed, bored. Arthur hadn’t given him much to do besides skim through a few Biblical texts on the book of Revelation, and all they talked about were theories about the apocalypse - the “End Times.” They were all rather dark and gloomy and cryptic, but by no means were they very helpful.

The way Merlin sat at the study table was the very opposite of Arthur’s, liquid and relaxed as he leaned back into his chair with one arm slung over it, the other arm resting on the table. His legs were sprawled out beneath the table itself, two long, spindly things that may or may not have kicked Arthur in the ankles once or twice when they first sat down.

Arthur, on the other hand, looked very… academic. His eyes were focused intently on the small, scrawling text printed on the pages of the dusty book. His back was straight, never slouching, and his feet were both firmly on the floor. Merlin wanted nothing more than to kick the chair out from under him just to see the man lose his composure for one moment.

Merlin bit his lip and fidgeted, fiddling with the zippers on his jacket and bouncing his leg.

“Stop that,” Arthur hummed, referring to the leg bouncing. Merlin stopped.

Geoffrey had since gone back to his office, perhaps to look for anything else that might be of some use to them.

“So, why don’t you Angels already know about this sort of thing?” Merlin asked, at a volume that was just barely passable for library standards. No one was around to hear, anyway, so he couldn't care less. “Like, if this is some crazy important life-or-death, fate-of-the-world-at-stake thing, wouldn’t Angels have, I dunno,” he flapped a hand around in the air for lack of better descriptors, “some sort of protocol for dealing with it? And don’t you have books Upstairs that you could’ve taken a gander at for this?”

Arthur didn’t so much as glance up from the book.

“We are taught what we need to know when we are first created,” Arthur said, “and the rest, we learn through experience. Our library is extensive, but it is by no means complete.”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s _Heaven,”_ Merlin insisted, as if that was all the answer needed.

With a sigh, Arthur replied, “Some texts are kept from us for our own good. If an Angel were to get their hands on the wrong sort of book… well. Fallen Angels don’t just come about on their own." He shrugged. "They have to get their ideas from _some_ where.”

Merlin was appalled.

Blinking rapidly, he said without thinking, “You mean _propaganda_ .” He laughed, quiet and harsh and filled with disbelief. “I’ve seen book censorship in high schools, maybe, but in _Heaven?_ I don’t believe that.”

“It’s worked for this long,” Arthur said. Like it wasn't a big deal.

Unbelievable. No, Merlin really couldn’t believe it. Heaven was perhaps even more corrupt than he’d first thought.

“And now you’ve got Fallen Angels and God knows what else coming after you and the Seal of the Disir,” Merlin pointed out.

“This sort of thing has not been precedented for nearly a thousand years, Merlin.” Arthur flipped to the next page, which had a complicated illustration of something that looked like a very ornate padlock. “The last time this happened, we knew how to deal with it.”

“How?”

“Well for one thing,” Arthur muttered, finally looking up from his reading, “we knew who the perpetrators were. We knew who had stepped out of line, and we knew exactly _where_ to find them. This time,” he said, growing marginally louder as he tapped a finger against the book, a lawyer pointing out the textual evidence to the jury, “we have no idea where these forces are coming from now. And we don’t know who is responsible.”

“But you have an idea,” Merlin said. Arthur looked at him. Merlin looked back, and there was a knowing glint in his eye. A smile crept into his face, knowing he'd gotten somewhere. “You’re thinking about that woman. Kay-lix, or whatever her name was."

“Cailleach,” said Arthur. He gave nothing away in his tone, but Merlin knew when Arthur was keeping something from him. He’d only known the prat for a month, maybe a little longer, but he could already tell. Something about the eyes, or maybe it was the way Arthur’s jaw twitched whenever Merlin asked him something that he clearly didn’t want to be asked.

“Yeah,” Merlin said, leaning forward. “She talked about Emr-- Um, about the Fallen Angels. And those Dorocha. You knew who they were - you don’t think they’ve got something to do with this?”

There was only silence in the study room for a moment.

“They might..”

“You have a hunch,” Merlin insisted.

“Yes, Merlin, but it’s only a hunch.” Arthur motioned at the book lying open on the table. “Which is why we’ve come here in the first place.”

“You’re reading about how to _fix_ this mess, you’ve not said a single thing about _who_ is involved."He was right, of course.

Arthur pressed his lips together and went back to deciphering the illustration of the padlock. The image took up both pages, filling the aged paper with beautiful swirls and intricate, interlocking designs.

“What we need right now is to find the relics. The Sword and the Staff have the power to, as humans would put it, ‘weld the door shut.’ But they also have the power to break the Seal permanently. Our mission right now is to find those relics before someone else does.”

“Got it.”

 

They were in the library until the evening, when the sun was beginning to dip low in the distance, offering mixed hues of red and yellow and whispers of pink as the tall windows allowed Merlin to look outside.

Here he was, getting a glimpse the world he loved so much and missed even more, even if he was sitting right there, hidden from the eyes of people with beating hearts and blissfully ignorant thoughts about what death might bring for them.

But he also wasn't there. Not really. This world wasn’t _his_ anymore, and it still broke his heart in little ways.

How none of this was permanent.

 _Nothing_ was permanent, but there’s just something about being twenty or twenty-two or twenty-four, and thinking that your life has only just begun. You’re invincible, and then just like that… you discover you’re not all that permanent yourself. You’re not immortal, after all. People die. Life goes on.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Hunith was just packing the last of her things when Gaius brought up Merlin.

The last suitcase belonging to him had been snapped shut hours ago. He had all the important documents packed, all the sigils memorized. A sachet of salt from the Dead Sea and a chain with a blessed, silver bullet sat ready in his breast pocket. “Hunith, there’s something you should know. It’s only right that I tell you.”

She was just in the middle of zipping up the first bag of clothes when she looked back up at him, expression stern. “It can’t wait until I’ve got these blasted things closed?” she asked, distracted.

“I... I think you had better sit down for this.”

A shade paler, Hunith took his advice.

He told her about the phone call. About all of it. She didn’t believe a word, naturally, shaking her head to and fro at the mention of the word “Angels” and it became a more vigorous shake when he brought in the word “demons.”

It was like watching a film, only she was in the film, and this was real life. Hunith was no actress. She was a woman in mourning, a mother who had lost her child. And she was too preoccupied with the fact that Gaius, who was old and had a fifty-fifty chance of suffering from dementia brought on by his age, was claiming to have spoken with her son.

Her son, who was dead.

With the word “no” on her tongue, she hastily sat up from the sofa and resumed packing, a flurry of busy hands and not enough time, too focused on trying to fit everything into two duffel bags without letting them burst at the seams. Gaius's words weren't real. These clothes and these bags, the bags under her eyes and the bags she was packing full of shirts and warm jumpers and other necessities, these were real. Ghosts were not real.

“Gaius just _stop_ already,” she demanded. She was too tired to muster enough sternness into her voice. She may have been about to cry again.

“Hunith, I’m telling you the truth.”

Hunith choked on a sob, trying to zip up the second duffel bag, but she hadn’t tucked in a stray shirtsleeve. The zipper snagged. She tugged a couple times before she gave up, releasing the zipper with gusto and wiping stubbornly at the tears spilling from the corners of her eyes. “I don’t need this right now, Gaius. _Not_ from you. All this talk of angels and demons and _spirits_ have no place here. Not here and not now, you understand me?”

“I’m sorry that I can’t tell you more. But it is the truth.”

“You sound too much like my husband. Just- just _stop_ , Gaius, or I’ll… I’ll stop listening.” She gestured unhappily to the duffel bag on the sofa, which sat pitifully half-zipped. “I have work to do - _We_. We have work to do.”

Not wanting to upset her any more, it was with a sigh of resignation that Gaius fell into silence again. Instead of pressing Hunith, he got a start on helping her with the last of the packing.

Outside, it had begun to rain.

At least she knew the truth. Whether or not she believed any of it, now, that was entirely up to Hunith.

 

**-^i^-**

 

 

At around half five, Arthur requested another visit to Geoffrey’s “office,” in search of another volume that might supplement the first they'd been given.

Dubiously, Dr. Monmouth had shown him back to the office. Which left Merlin alone to wander the shelves, perhaps in search of something. Or maybe just to kill some of the boredom.

“Um, excuse me?”

Merlin whirled around. It was the girl with the dandelion nails, the one who’d been eyeing Arthur like a piece of prime meat just a few hours ago. She was still here?

“Oh.. hi,” Merlin said, feeling his face flush pink. “Sorry, did you need something?”

The girl laughed, light and tinkling like little bells. There was something off about it though. Like the bells were out of tune with each other. “No, it’s fine,” she said. “My name’s Lamia. I came to see you, actually.”

“O-Oh?” Merlin asked.

"Mhmm.." she was a little too close for comfort. He backed up a step.

She'd come back here to see him?

_Wait._

She could see him. Alarm bells were ringing. _This is wrong,_ Merlin thought,  _this is wrong_.

And he was right. One moment, the girl’s eyes were eyeing him prettily, shining a lovely shade of blue. The next moment, she blinked, and they were a shiny, soulless black.

Merlin stumbled backwards into a bookshelf, petrified.

The girl giggled as she backed Merlin up against the shelf, caging him in. “Something wrong?” she asked, her voice low and resonating with something that was definitely not human.

“Demon,” Merlin said, a little dumbly. He had to call for help. “Arth-!” A hand was slapped over his mouth quickly.

The girl _tut-tutted_ as she leaned in close to his face, inhaling deeply. Merlin cringed and turned his head away from her. Shuddering, he felt a long, sharper-than-normal fingernail glide against the surface of skin, right above his pulse point. He didn’t dare move now.

“What are you doing down here, darling?” she asked, bubbly and warm. “ _Especially_ with an Archangel like Arthur, hmm?” Suddenly her hand was around his neck, squeezing. She released the hand that was covering Merlin’s mouth. He knew he wouldn’t get very far if he tried shouting again.

“Where is Arthur?” he hissed.

“Locked in a broom closet, I’m sure,” the girl said sweetly. Then she leaned in again with a hungry look in her eyes. “You're a handsome thing, aren't you? You look young for your age." Whatever the hell that meant. "But you’re dead... why come back when you could have had _everything_ up in Heaven? Poor dear…. they give it all back to you, and you're just going to throw it all away again?”

Merlin wheezed, trying to say something, but the hand around his throat tightened. White spots danced before his eyes. He reached up with both hands to push her off, but she was like a brick wall. A brick wall in a bright pink jumper and flared jeans, and uncaring black eyes.

“Ahh, miss?”

Merlin never thought he’d be so happy to see Dr. Monmouth again in all his life. The hand around Merlin’s neck stopped squeezing. Then it fell away completely.

Geoffrey appeared from out of nowhere, popping up behind the girl. He was not yet aware of what Merlin was seeing. Or maybe not aware that Merlin was even there at all.

“Miss?” he said. “I’m afraid this is a strictly private section of the library. If you wanted a book from here, you should have come to find me first.”

The girl blinked, eyes returning to something more human, before she turned around with a sweet smile plastered on her face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Really?” she asked, taking a step towards the professor, who didn’t look at all concerned. Merlin shook his head, heaving against the shelf. He grabbed onto it for support and stayed where he was.

“Doctor Monmouth, she’s a demon..” Merlin croaked. Geoffrey’s head whipped around, looking past the girl to the shelf in front of which Merlin stood.

“What?” he asked. “A demon? Ridiculous.”

Those were his last words.

 

Paralyzed with fear, Merlin watched the kindly professor, a book still tight in his hands, fall to the floor with a sickening _thud,_ blood pooling onto the wooden floor from his throat, which had been ripped open. What Merlin could only numbly guess was the man’s larynx lay in the quickly growing puddle just next to the professor’s unblinking, colourless face. There was a twitch, a gurgle, and then the body was still.

“Ar-Arthur!” Hoarse, Merlin cursed his own vocal cords for not cooperating with him.

The girl grinned as she rounded on Merlin again, her face twisting and melting until there was nothing left but mottled, grey flesh and charred bone. Cold, solid black eyes peered at Merlin from cracked eye sockets. Maybe she wasn’t grinning.

Maybe it was just the fact that she no longer had a mouth to cover her greyish-yellow set of teeth, which reeked of death and sulfur when she hissed in Merlin's face. Merlin realized she was laughing at him.

The demon brought up one bloodied hand and wiped it down her jumper, not giving a damn that the material would be ruined.

“The Angel and the mortal man,” she said, wild, unbridled, wicked delight sparking a dark flame in her eyes, burning like coals. Her mane of glossy black hair hadn’t changed. Her nails were still painted a bright yellow, but now they were claws, grabbing Merlin by the shoulder and slowly digging in. “You smell lonely. I’ll bet you taste _amazing_.” The horrible, ugly grin grew impossibly wider, or perhaps Merlin was just seeing things.

“ _Arthur,”_ Merlin tried to say for the third time, but his voice was gone.

He didn’t want the last thing he saw to be a pair of black eyes and a skeletal smile bearing into his soul. The demon laughed again, a low hiss like a gas heater starting up.

Then the sound of a door being blasted off its hinges filled the quiet study room with an almighty _bang_. In mere seconds, the demon was thrown off of Merlin.

Arthur.

Thank God _._

The demon shrieked as she skidded into a bookshelf, causing a cascade of heavy leather volumes to come raining down on top of her. There was no way it would do much damage. They had to get out _right now._

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked urgently, helping Merlin stand _._

“Think so,” Merlin muttered, massaging his neck where two sets of claws had been a moment ago.

A hand pushed between Merlin's shoulder blades until he was behind Arthur. “We’re getting out of here,” Arthur said, stating the obvious, before pressing his back to Merlin to defend him when he saw the demon, Lamia, push herself up from the floor and into a crouched position. She looked like a wild animal on the hunt, ready to strike.

“It’s your move, lovey,” she said to Arthur, a little breathless and very, very angry. Arthur turned his head to Merlin and cocked it to the side, telling him that it was time to go. Merlin took the hint and edged around the shelf, away from the inevitable fight.

Lamia watched him go, dead eyes following his progress. But Arthur blocked her path. They were at an impasse, it seemed.

“Well?” she said.

Arthur waited for just a breath. Then he turned around and ran.

The demon snarled, stunned into a pause before she gave chase. “You would _run!_ ” she spat after him, incredulous, her flat ballerina shoes _thunk thunk_ ing against the floor panels. There was another ugly laugh, but neither Arthur nor Merlin turned around, just feet apart from each other.

“The book!” Arthur shouted. Merlin veered towards their table. The leather book was in his hands before his brain finally caught up with the rest of him.

The second he felt the ancient leather against the palm of his hands, Arthur’s arms were wrapped around his waist, steady and firm and grounding and,

_Whoa._

 

**-^i^-**

 

Have you ever been on a loopty-loop roller coaster? Remember that sensation afterwards of feeling like your stomach’s been transported to some place in your body where it shouldn’t be?

That was sort of how Merlin felt when Arthur transported the both of them out of Heythrop library,

He felt dizzy.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked earnestly for the fifth time. “Do you need to sit down?”

“Y'know what, yeah,” Merlin mumbled, pressing his thumbs to his temples and rubbing circles there.

Looking around when they first materialized outside, he realized they were alone, thankfully. The second thing he realized was that they were on a pathway, surrounded by hedges, grass and flowers, and it was just beginning to rain. As Arthur led Merlin over to a bench to sit, Merlin wondered with a numbed sort of fascination why Arthur had brought them to Kensington Square Gardens.

They weren’t all that far away from the library at all.

"What happened to the demon?" asked Merlin. "Lamia?"

“She won’t follow us here,” Arthur insisted, looking worried when Merlin responded with a weak nod. “The ground was blessed by a priest, a few hundred years ago. Demons can’t enter here.”

"And the library?"

"She's probably already fled by now. I sent out a signal to Percival and the rest."

“Good to know.”

“I’m usually not supposed to do this sort of thing," Arthur said as he paced over the grass, arms behind his back.

“What, fucking apparate us out of a library like Harry fuckin’ Potter?” Merlin said. It wasn’t that he meant to snap at Arthur, it was just that _anyone_ who’d just witnessed a scene like that, with the demon and Geoffrey… well, any normal person would be a bit overwhelmed. Merlin was overwhelmed.

Thankfully, Arthur gave him a minute to breathe. Deep breaths, in and out, through his nose and out through the mouth, that was what he needed. The image of mottled flesh and black eyes were forever seared into his brain, but right now he needed to _not think._

A few more minutes passed in silence. No one was around, and Merlin began to feel marginally better.

The wooziness from the seconds-long trip by teleportation had not yet subsided, though. He let his hands drop to his lap as he rolled his neck, and felt a satisfying _crick._

Arthur’s gaze fell to Merlin’s neck. His eyes went wide.

In an instant he was next to Merlin, tilting his chin up to get a better look. His shoulder brushed against Merlin’s rain jacket as Arthur leaned in closer, fingers gently hovering over bruised skin where the demon had tried to choke the life out of Merlin.

“She did this to you?” Arthur asked anxiously, sounding an octave lower than normal. Arthur sounded angry - No, _livid_.

“I’m fine, Arthur.” Merlin tried to bat the gentle hands away, but they continued to hover. Arthur’s brow was pinched with concern, his lips pursed in a tight frown. His jaw worked. Merlin thought he looked like a kicked puppy. Or maybe a worried school nurse looking for a place that needed a swab of peroxide and a Band-Aid.

Arthur looked so apologetic, so lost and sad, and guilty especially “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice wavering. Something it never, ever did. "I didn’t know...” His voice had gotten quiet. “If there had been enough of them there, they might have taken you. I should've been quicker.”

It was an odd thing, to see Arthur look shaken. Merlin still thought he was being a little dramatic.

“Arthur, this wasn’t your fault,” He felt the need to say it. “That demon took us both by surprise. And look,” he motioned at himself, “I’m still here. Still ali-- well, all right, I’m dead. But like... I’m still _fine_.” He supposed he could have phrased it better. 

The lightheartedness he tried so hard to get through went unanswered.

“You were almost killed, Merlin.”

“I’m already dead,” said Merlin, confused and concerned.

Arthur shook his head. “There are worse things. The dead can die again... I've seen it happen and..."

Merlin waited. When Arthur wouldn't look at him Merlin inclined his head and tried to coax it out of him with just a look.

Arthur shook his head, before answering, "it's even worse the second time.”

That was when Merlin started to feel cold.

He’d been _so close_ to having that happen to him. “I’m still here,” he said again, softer, and he wondered how on earth he’d landed himself in a situation where he’d be comforting an Angel, of all things.

The rain started letting down a little harder. Arthur’s eyes caught Merlin’s, never leaving them for a moment. “I’m not letting something like that happen to you again.”

"Is that another promise?"

"S'pose it is."

Merlin laughed softly. “So protective over one stupid mortal.”

"Not stupid," Arthur muttered, insistent on making sure Merlin was all right. "Does this hurt?" he asked, putting very light pressure to the bruises still forming around Merlin's throat and collarbone. When he looked closely, he also caught faint nail marks where the demon had let her claws roam. He scowled at the sight.  _Demons always like to play with their food._

Merlin winced at the pressure, but he shook his head. "'S all right, it's not that bad." He laughed, but it sounded fake even to his own ears. "Didn't know the dead  _could_ get hurt. Learn something new everyday, I s'pose."

“Shut up, Merlin.” No heat to the words. Arthur's eyes had since left the bruises, making their way up Merlin's face to meet his gaze. Two sets of blue locked onto one another.

Arthur was wearing his mortal civvies, the windbreaker blocking out most of the rain. While Merlin wished he had an umbrella, he had to admit that he hadn’t lost his deep love for rain. A little kid, five years old, maybe, he’d sloshed around in his too-big Wellies and had a grand time soaking in the raindrops, even when his mum called for him to come inside before he caught his death of cold.

The twinge in his heart returned when he thought about his mum. It grew worse when he remembered what the rain had done to him in the first place.

 _Not the rain,_ he told himself.  _A cold. And me being stupid. And this was all a fluke and there's absolutely nothing that can be done about that now and his eyes are so bright..._

The rain jacket was finally doing some good for him, keeping out most of the chill. Odd, he thought he couldn't feel the cold if he was dead. Or perhaps the goosebumps on his arms and on the back of his neck were because of something else. Merlin’s eyes didn’t leave Arthur’s, but his hands came up to rest over the ones that hovered so gingerly over his collarbone and shoulder, soft and unsure.

“I’m here,” Merlin repeated, so quiet he almost couldn’t hear himself underneath the sound of the rainfall. He leaned forward. "You prat," he whispered, grinning when something sparked in Arthur's eyes. Jaw slack, Arthur couldn't contain a snort of laughter while he leaned away, a look of incredulity and amusement on his face. 

"Always so  _rude,"_ Arthur said, before he let himself lean back in. They both sat on the bench together, angled towards each other in such close proximity, and for a moment it was just the two of them and the gentle patter of rain on the grass. 

Nothing but them.

One hand reached up; Fingers carded through golden threads of hair and stopped when they reached the back of Arthur's head, almost cradling it. Stronger ones left his collarbone to circle around, tugging at the nape of Merlin’s neck where they grasped at dark curls, a push and pull so incredible it had to have been predestined. Warm. Impossible. Their faces were centimeters apart.

And then they weren't. 

The kiss was so gentle and full of words that didn't really need to be spoken. This was enough for now, but whether or not it could last, well...

Seconds.

Minutes, perhaps.

They weren’t keeping track. It was possible they would have stayed that way forever, pressed together with no desire at all to break away, except--

“ _Arthur_.”

The two of them, startled, broke apart, leaning away from each other to look around in unison. Merlin's face was hot and he knew it must have looked it, too.

Leon was there. Lancelot stood just off to the side, looking like he would rather be anywhere but here.

“I think we have some things to discuss,” Leon said, in a tone showed he was clearly doing his best to control himself. To control - what was it? Anger? Disappointment? Worry? His eyes bore into Merlin, who looked back at him with a mixture of determination and confusion. When Merlin turned to look at Arthur, Arthur didn’t look back. He was focused intently on staring daggers back at his comrade in arms.

No one said another word for a long time afterwards.

 

**-^i^-**

 

Hunith and Gaius met Alator at the address Balinor had left them. The little plaque above the entrance read:

 

_**Saint Francis Presbyterian Church** _

 

The Church was small and, Hunith knew from prior visits here on Sundays, not exactly popular. The parish was tiny, with only twenty or so people who attended every weekend. Everyone knew Hunith.

The man who greeted her and Gaius at the door at midnight was _not_ someone Hunith recognized.

“My name is Alator,” the man said. He was very tall and very bald, with small tattoos circling round his temples in little dots. Surely there were more on his arms, perhaps on his back and chest as well, but Hunith wasn’t imprudent enough to ask. Not that she felt like knowing.

Alator, according to the man himself, was a priest who had traveled over from Scotland to take in anyone who needed refuge during “these dark times.” It looked like Gaius understood what the man had meant, but Hunith was in the dark, baffled by the comment. In the end, though, she knew enough to trust them both.

They were taken to the church basement.

Just when Hunith thought they would be staying here, Alator held up his little battery-powered torch and aimed it at the floor. He kicked at the musty old rug laying where he’d pointed the light, and Gaius and Hunith were caught off guard by the sight of a large grate underneath.

“There’s a  sub-basement that’s been prepared,” Alator said, his voice low and borderline austere, with a rough accent. “You’ll be safe as long as you stay down here.” With that, he toed open the grate and shined the torch down into the darkness.

With a resolute breath and a wary look at the priest with the torch, Hunith was the first to step down the stairs. Nothing here could scare her more than the thought of losing anyone else in her family.

The sub-basement was much more spacious than either of them had expected.

Sigils and wards and devil’s traps had been painted or burned into the walls, floors, and ceiling. Hunith didn't recognize any of the symbols. She assumed Gaius might. Alator explained to them both, “this is the safest location in London at this time. There may be more of you soon, or there may not be. My connections have not spoken to me since last week. If they come, they come.” That was all he said about other visitors.

There were four-ish rooms in the sub-basement: a regular-looking sitting room with some mismatched chairs and a crummy sofa that sagged, which was connected to a room with at least six cots; a small kitchen with rations, where a nasty set of knives decorated the wall above the stove and a metal barrel with a cross on its front, large enough to fit a person, sat in a corner (Hunith could only assume it was filled with holy water). Last but not least was the loo.

It wasn’t atrocious, but Hunith did ask Alator if there was a chance of receiving cleaning supplies any time in the near future. What the toilet could really use was a run-down with ajax and bleach.

“Aye,” said Alator with a nod as he switched on the lights, which were orange from the aged bulbs and dimmed besides, “I have someone responsible for making sure we don’t run low on supplies down here. You won’t be wanting for food or supplies, as long as you remain down here.”

“Until when will that be?” Gaius spoke up.

Looking Gaius dead in the eye, the priest said simply, “When it is safe.”

“And communication?” Hunith added. She reached into her purse and drew her cellphone. The rest of her bags lay at the foot of one of the cots in the sleeping quarters, but her purse remained with her.

Alator reached out a hand, the one that wasn’t holding the torch, opening his palm to receive the device. “Unfortunately,” he said, “wireless communication is not permitted here. It is too easy to trace the location with something like that.”

Hunith was extremely reluctant to give up her phone. But then Gaius caught her eye and canted his head in the direction of the other side of the room. By the wall sat a little wooden table, and on the table, an old, vintage telephone. Hunith saw it and frowned, dubious, but finally huffed and gave in. She handed over her phone.

 

**-^i^-**

 

“We need to talk about Merlin,” Leon said, almost at a whisper, not daring to let his eyes wander over to the man in question, who sat with Lancelot in the little cafe with his arms crossed, refusing to speak. He looked pissed off. Leon didn’t have the heart to blame him.

“I’m sure it can wait, Leon-”

“Now, Arthur.”

Arthur couldn’t remember the last time Leon had ever interrupted him. Clearly, Leon valued the subject of the conversation much more than his status as an Archangel.

After swapping information on Kilgarrah and his advice on the relics, and the incident at library (they at least had the book, thank god), the party of four had all fallen into a very pregnant silence. Leon ordered an espresso and a pastry. Lance ordered himself a cafe latte, as well as a mug of tea. The waitress had looked at him curiously but took his order down and left to get the two drinks. The four sat at two separate tables across the cafe from each other. Merlin with Lancelot, and Arthur with Leon.

Merlin, being invisible, was probably better off not scaring the living daylights out of an innocent mortal. He wasn't a total git. Lance had been keeping the conversation to a minimum since, let’s be honest, he would have looked a little out of place talking to himself, as Merlin was technically still invisible to everyone else.

Meanwhile, Leon was having at it with Arthur while he waited for his espresso.

“You know the consequences Arthur, you _know_ what would happen if--”

“Do I look like an idiot, Leon?” Arthur snapped, bristling.

Leon heaved a heavy sigh. He hadn't so much as shrugged off his windbreaker, too focused on the matter at hand and looking all too ready to run into action, should the need arise. He shook his head, curls flying back and forth with him. His hair was still somewhat weighed down with rainwater, making him look like a very ticked off poodle.

“Look... I understand," Leon tried, searching for something that might help Arthur see sense. But if Arthur thought he was already seeing sense, then Leon's efforts were going to prove fruitless. "Really. Lance and I both agree that Merlin is brilliant. We all like him! That's no secret.”

“Shut up.” Unlike Leon, Arthur had shed his windbreaker and hung it over the back of his chair. He sat uncharacteristically slouched, his back heavy against the back of the chair as he crossed his arms. The sight wasn't unlike a father scolding their child for getting his hands in the cookie jar. Only, the kid was Arthur, and he hadn't gotten his hands on anything other than Merlin. Or close enough, anyway.

“But you have a _job_ to do." Leon's lecture wasn't over yet, apparently. Just as well, Arthur clearly had a great deal of patience for things like this. "What do you think would happen if…?” He didn’t finish his thought. Arthur got the message plenty clearly.

No one, save for a happy old couple and the two employees on duty, was in the cafe that day. Just the three Angels and Merlin. The rest of the team was still out on patrol. 

Some jazz tune was on. A sultry lead singer crooned through the grainy speakers of the cafe's dated radio, and the ambience was quite charming, especially with the rain still falling outside. It was all just... warm and fuzzy. The atmosphere between the party of supernatural visitors was... neither of those things. 

“I made Merlin a promise,” Arthur said coldly. “I told him that he would get to see his mother again.”

Leon still shook head. “You’re getting too close to him. You were caught red-handed not even an hour ago, why're you trying to pretend it didn't happen? You like the bloke a lot more than you’d ever care to admit, and I'm happy for you. I am." He ran a hand over his face, evidently growing tired with all of this. "But you know it can never become anything more, right?”

“How is this _possibly_ your business?” Arthur said. 

“You’re our _leader_ , Arthur. If something were to happen-”

“Nothing will happen,” Arthur insisted, but even then it came out sounding only halfway convincing. He repeated himself in a more tempered voice. “ _Nothing will happen,_ Leon _."_

“Good,” said Leon, although his expression remained like marble. Smooth on the surface, but stony nonetheless. “Because you and I both know what the consequences would be if something _were_ to happen.” The warning was blatant, but it wasn’t a threat.

Arthur could see in Leon’s eyes just how much he cared about his leader. About his _friend._

Leon was right, of course. Arthur had allowed this to go too far.

“We need to focus on the task at hand,” Arthur said smoothly, changing the subject. He glanced at Merlin at the table across from theirs in the little cafe. Merlin, nursing a hot mug of tea, caught his eye and shot him a small smile, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to return it with Leon watching.

His heart just about snapped in two when he saw the disappointment in Merlin’s eyes, just before he looked back away. Lance had been too absorbed in his cafe latte to notice.

On the other hand, their shared look hadn’t been lost on Leon.

Leon, miffed, accepted the espresso from the returning waitress and took a sip, pointing his gaze irritably down into the tiny ceramic cup. Arthur hadn’t ordered anything.

The last hour had been spent ignoring the glaringly obvious tension between the four men, especially between Merlin and Arthur, and the big fat _What Now?_ that at least two out of the four were probably wondering.

“At least now we have something to do, direct instructions for what we need,” Leon murmured, letting the matter drop. For now.

Merlin, unrelenting in his optimism, seemed to be going off of a very real hope that everything was going to turn out fine, they were going to find the relics and save the world, blah blah blah. He was talking rapidly to one very patient Lancelot, probably trying to get the whole story out in one breath as he moved his hands - almost knocking over his tea in the process - and damn it if it Arthur didn't just want to watch him all day long.

Arthur, who was holding onto a distinctively tenuous string of hope, could sense the storm coming. He wanted to be optimistic, but with their odds… it wasn’t looking amazing.

He kept his emotions under control, like he always did. He didn’t let Merlin see how worried he was. Didn't let him see how heartsick he was.

There was already so much at risk, and with Merlin thrown into the mix, Arthur was beginning to second-guess whether he really wanted to risk anything at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *emerges from under a pile of papers and schoolwork, squinting in the sunlight as I raise an arm, clutching chapter 2 in my cold, cold hands * _"I said I would write it"_ I wheeze, _"I said I wouldn't abandon this one. I said..."_ before sinking back into the dark, unforgiving depths of college.
> 
> Folks, I know it's been a long time, but I said I wouldn't abandon this fic. Look, I wrote a thing :D


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